Let Me Take Care of You
by demonkatgurl17
Summary: Mycroft gets an unexpected visit from John at work. Things get heated.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft sat behind his desk, poring over the paperwork on it. He was beginning to think that today's work was going to amount to nothing, shuffling through report after worthless report. He sighed softly as he set the last paper down, and leaned back in his chair.

Without warning, the door of his office burst open, banging off the wall before the intruder closed it (slammed it, really) behind him.

It was John Watson.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise at seeing the doctor. The last he'd seen him (personally) had been at Sherlock's funeral nearly two months ago.

"To what do I owe the-", he cut off his question as he took in the man before him. John had a wild, almost desperate look on his face. His movements were jerky and tense, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself, overdoing his movements when he fidgeted.

"John, what-", again Mycroft abandoned his question as John strode towards him, coming around the desk.

Mycroft relaxed his body as much as possible as the man approached. If John was here to perpetrate violence against his person, Mycroft wasn't going to struggle. He knew the anguish that his role in Sherlock's downfall had brought to John. He would take whatever punishment the doctor thought he deserved. He almost wanted it.

But he was surprised when, instead of being hit, he was pivoted in his chair to face John before the man dropped to his knees. Mycroft frowned down at the man. He was about to ask what he was doing, but John gave a violent negative shake of his head. He reached for the opening of Mycroft's trousers and brusquely unfastened them. Mycroft was brought out of his shocked stupor when the doctor reached through the opening and removed his flaccid penis from his pants.

He grasped John firmly by the wrists, preventing further assault.

John's features were tight. His jaw was clenched and his throat swallowed convulsively as he glared down at Mycroft's lap (as though his crotch was the reason for his displeasure). Mycroft held him still until John met his eyes.

"What are you doing, John?"

John promptly looked back down at Mycroft's exposed lap, his breath hitching in his chest. He seemed to be fighting tears. After a moment, John gained enough composure to speak.

"H-he's gone," he spat out. "He's gone and YOU took him and I'll never get him back and I NEED him. I have nothing. No one needs me. I NEED to be needed, to be USEFUL. Need to take care of someone and I HAD someone, then YOU took him from me."

His voice was getting softer as it choked up with emotion.

"Y-your fault he's gone...and I have NOTHING. I need to take care of someone and YOU took him from me...Please. Please, I NEED this. It's your fault that I need this, just...please, let me take care of you..."

He trailed off brokenly, his breathing uneven.

Mycroft's grip on John's wrists never wavered, but he felt a pang of remorse for this man, who had so clearly loved his brother and was so utterly devastated by his absence. He had never considered just how attached to Sherlock the doctor had been. Seeing this broken man at his feet pushed Mycroft to reevaluate his previous decision to cut ties with John.

He scrutinized John's face, quietly assessing , before releasing him.

If John needed to tend to him somehow to ease whatever...distorted...manifestation his grief had taken, then Mycroft would help him as best he could. He owed it to Sherlock to see that his friend didn't fall apart at the seams-as he looked close to doing.

Mycroft leaned back. He shifted his hips closer to the edge of the chair and laid his arms on the chair rests, waiting for John to continue.

John glanced up haltingly, unable to completely hold Mycroft's stare. He visibly calmed when he saw Mycroft's acquiescence. John shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees until he was as close to the chair as possible, deep into the 'V' of Mycroft's legs. Cautiously, he gripped Mycroft's flaccid dick.

He began to stroke and pet Mycroft's cock, getting more confident as he became used to fondling a member that wasn't his own. Gradually, it became erect and Mycroft's breathing quickened. He stopped breathing altogether for a few seconds when John leaned forward to lick the droplet of precome that had formed on the tip.

Mycroft stifled a moan as John trailed his tongue across the underside of his cock, tasting him from root to tip and back again. It had been years since anyone had touched him like this, offering to give him pleasure, and his body ached deliciously in anticipation.

One of John's hands was gripping Mycroft's thigh, steadying himself as he lavished attention on the hard cock before him. The other hand was wrapped around the base of Mycroft's cock. He pumped the shaft and ran his tongue around the fat, dripping head.

Mycroft clenched his hands over the ends of his chair rests to restrain himself from simply taking his own pleasure. The temptation to slam John's mouth down onto his cock or to work his hips up into that hand was incredibly strong.

But it wasn't what John needed. John needed to 'take care' of him. And it was taking every ounce of control that Mycroft had in order to let him do so.

However, when John opened his mouth wider, bowing his head to take the leaking tip into his mouth, Mycroft couldn't restrain his gasp of pleasure. The lithe tongue that had been teasing him began to undulate against his glans. Mycroft's hips bucked upward a fraction before he caught the withering edge of his control.

Seeming emboldened by the elder Holmes's reaction, John tightened his grip on the base as he took as much of the man's length into his mouth as he could.

His tongue rolled against Mycroft's shaft experimentally as he slowly bobbed up and down, soon finding a steady rhythm. When John finally ventured to apply suction to his cock, Mycroft tipped his head back, closing his eyes and groaning his approval up to the ceiling.

John had been tentative at first, despite his forwardness. But his growing confidence was bellied by the frankly enthusiastic attention he was applying to Mycroft's rock-solid erection. His pace quickened.

Mycroft's eyes shot open when vibrations erupted around his cock and a loud moan drowned out the wet, suckling sounds in the room.

He looked down at the man between his legs in confusion.

John's eyes were closed but his face had been transformed by a mixture of intense concentration and elation as he licked and sucked the cock in his hand, as though it was the most delicious thing in the world.

Mycroft focused on the doctor's lap. His trousers were tented by his obvious erection. A spot of precome was beginning to dampen the material. Realization thundered through Mycroft: John was aroused. The sound he had heard had come from the doctor, himself. And he hadn't stopped.

John had begun a constant stream of moaning as he worshipped the cock in his mouth. He had fallen into a pattern of licking the underside of the shaft, running his tongue across the head, and sucking the whole thing back down his throat then repeating the process, creating a circuit of pleasure.

Mycroft licked his lips and slowly rocked his hips up into John's mouth, unable to stay completely still. His hand cupped the back of John's head, petting and encouraging him.

As the eagerness John was exhibiting brought Mycroft to the edge, he fleetingly wondered if Sherlock had ever been at the receiving end of John's more pleasurable ministrations.

John took him deep into his throat, down to the base and swallowed around him.

That was all Mycroft could take.

He tried to pull John off as he felt his climax begin to overtake him, but the doctor resisted, sucking fervently around his girth. Mycroft shot his release down John's throat, back bowed nearly in half with the strength of his orgasm. Later, he'd be appalled by how loudly he'd shouted when he came, but presently he didn't give a damn.

He collapsed backwards into the chair, slumping as he rode out the last waves of pleasure. John had swallowed every drop. As Mycroft struggled to master himself, John cleaned the spent member with gentle flicks of his tongue, mindful of its sensitivity, before tucking Mycroft back into his pants, .

Mycroft allowed the doctor to redress him, but looked down curiously when he felt a touch to his thigh.

John was nuzzling his head against him, eyes closed with a small frown on his face. Glancing down at John's lap, Mycroft saw his erection hadn't diminished. It strained against its confines while John continued to kneel between Mycroft's legs, white-knuckled hands gripping his own knees. He hadn't made one move to relieve himself, just sat rubbing his head against Mycroft's inner thigh.

Time to retake his reins of this wayward pony, Mycroft thought.

His expression brooking no argument, he leaned down and pressed his hand against John's bulge. He was rewarded with a distressed whimper and a buck of John's hips. Making quick work of the man's trousers, Mycroft freed the erection, rousing half-hearted protests from its owner.

Mycroft licked his own palm and wrapped it around the base of John's cock, jacking the man to completion despite the awkward angle. It didn't take more than a few minutes, aroused as long as the doctor had been.

John came with a half-choked cry, fingers dug into his own thighs. An act of penance, perhaps? For attaining pleasure? Mycroft pondered as he cleaned them both up with his handkerchief.

John methodically arranged himself and his clothing before getting slowly to his feet, his legs stiff from his time on the floor. Without even looking at Mycroft, he turned and made his way to the door.

"I expect you back next Thursday, same time, John."

Startled, the doctor stopped and turned to face him, his disbelief evident. He gave Mycroft a searching look. Taking in the seriousness of the elder Holmes's expression, he nodded, turning away with a hopeful smile. John crossed to the door and left, allowing Mycroft to reexamine the visit in peace.

As unexpected and enjoyable as the events had been , they were a clear sign of how badly the oceans of John's existence had been churned. Something had broken inside John. How irreparably, though, remained to be seen.

Sighing at the brutal unfairness of life, he retrieved his mobile from his desk and sent a text:

_Please be quick with your work. Your doctor needs you more than you think._

Until the traces of Moriarty's web were wiped out and Sherlock could return, Mycroft would have to look after his brother's keeper. And if this...arrangement...was what John needed, he would do his best to help the man, in Sherlock's stead.

Mycroft set the mobile down and returned to his papers as he waited for Sherlock's reply, a small smile on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

*Three Hours Earlier*

It started with an itch, a niggling sensation in the back of his mind, like the feeling he needed to do something, but had forgotten. John wandered around his tiny flat (the one he had moved into a month and a half ago after...) trying to place the feeling.

In stark contrast to 221B, John kept it clean and orderly, in a near religious fashion. When he dirtied a teacup, it was nearly always washed soon afterwards. John tried to keep reminders of Sherlock to a minimum. And domestic messes were certainly included on the list of "Things to Avoid."

It was just too painful, too soon.

When something caught him unaware, his mind would flash back to St Bart's, Sherlock's fragile body plummeting to the

concrete, blood streaked into his blue eyes... It never failed that he'd come back to his senses after several minutes of sobbing uncontrollably and clutching whatever object had set him off into hysterics.

John was currently recovering from one such episode. He'd discovered a pipette in the box of things Mrs. Hudson had sent over that morning. Memories of experiments and the noxious smell of chemicals had made his knees buckle under the onslaught of grief.

He walked aimless around the flat, pipette buried in a trouser pocket.

Nothing to do. The flat was clean and the laundry done. Sarah didn't need anyone to fill in at her practice.

No one to share company.

Mrs. Hudson had dropped off the box on her way to visit her sister for a few weeks. Harry was off the booze (for now, at least) and had thrown herself into her work (thought it might have had something to do with the attractive new coworker she was trying to impress). The thought of going to Lestrade was laughable. John was still furious with the whole Met for turning on Sherlock, after all he'd done for them, for everyone...for John. Molly wouldn't even look at John properly, let alone give him the time of day; Mike was back to his teaching duties.

Which left him with...no one.

Not one person left to give a damn about John.

He had known that Sherlock was steadily taking up more and more of his attention (as his girlfriends were always so quick to point out), but he had never considered what would happen if Sherlock wasn't there anymore-as though he had been some immortal creature, immune to the dangers around him, running about London, and fascinating John with his deductions to the end of time.

He hadn't considered how _alone_ he'd be. And he _was _alone, everyone had their own lives, only popping into John's every now and then to make sure he didn't off himself.

Over the past two months, John would repeatedly succumb to his anger and depression and would entertain thoughts of his own suicide. But as hurt as he was over Sherlock's death, he couldn't forget about Harry and Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't bear the thought of either of them finding his body. Sherlock's suicide had done enough damage.

And it would be selfish.

Though after taking care of Sherlock for so long, wasn't he entitled to some selfishness? Would anyone blame him if he _did_ end it?

John pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind, to be picked over again later. John's eyes fell on his battered laptop sitting on the desk in the corner.

The hits on his blog had skyrocketed (after the site repaired its counter's error). People visited it daily even after Sherlock had been painted a fraud (or because of it, more like). John couldn't bring himself to delete it.  
It would be like giving in, giving up, saying they were right to doubt Sherlock-and they weren't. They were all wrong about Sherlock. His blog would stand as a testament to John's unwavering belief in his friend.

Someone needed to take a stand against the rubbish about Sherlock the press churned out every few weeks. If only Mycroft hadn't-

Mycroft.

He'd forgotten about Sherlock's brother.

Which was rather easy considering John hadn't seen or heard from the man since the funeral. Mycroft had seen to his brother's belongings and burial, leaving John to deal with his grief and living arrangements.  
John would be willing to bet that the man deleted information with more care than Sherlock (if he deleted anything at all), which meant John was being _deliberately _ignored.

That thought pissed him off more than a little bit.

Mycroft had betrayed his brother to his greatest enemy, had _John_ protect Sherlock (a feat in itself) because the brothers were to stubborn to set aside their differences, then veritably _stonewalled_ John after his brother was in the ground.

John had become a major part of Sherlock's life and Mycroft had the _gall_ to pretend his brother's best friend didn't exist.

Okay, he wasn't pissed, he was livid. A great deal of the whole mess had been Mycroft's fault-_his_ fault that John was alone, no one with which to laugh, work, take care of...

John frowned, taking a seat at the rickety desk.

He'd spent the better part of three years helping and tending to Sherlock's needs/whims. John had lost people before (his parents, his patients, buddies from his unit), but this pain felt different.

Sherlock had been different.

He'd been so much more to John than a best friend. He'd been his employer, colleague, flat mate, brother, a recurring patient, the (occasional) fantasy focus, and all-around cock block; they could probably have been even more had they both ever pulled their heads out of their asses.

It was natural, he supposed, to feel so lost without Sherlock: than man had literally become John's life.  
Mycroft had helped take _John's_ life when Sherlock had taken his _own_. Mycroft had done that, when he could have done so much more, could have _saved _his brother's life.

Suddenly, John pushed away from the desk. He made his way to the door, grabbing his coat on the way out.

The anger and pain had reached critical levels. He couldn't just work on his blog or watch telly feeling so... alone/wronged/hateful/_needy_...

Quickly, John flagged down a cab. Destination? The Diogenes Club.

Mycroft would find it difficult to ignore John when he was venting his spleen in the man's face. It would was worth the risk of wasting cab fare on the possibility of getting thrown out, but John was feeling more bitter and lonely than ever before in his life. He hated it, needed it gone, needed the man who helped make him like this to understand the Sherlock-shaped _hole_ in his heart.

After John paid the cabbie, he strode right in, taking the familiar path to Mycroft's office. The door was closed.

Fuck propriety.

He wrenched the door open and entered the room, shoving the door roughly behind him.

Actually seeing the center of his resentment had an oddly reversed effect upon John: his anger began to abate. The man looked tired (exhausted, even); John had never seen him looking...so...defeated.

John had forgotten than Mycroft had lost Sherlock too.

He fidgeted. The anger had propelled him here, but without it, all John had was the near-consuming need to do something, be useful, take care of someone.

But he had no one. Much like the man before him had no one. Mycroft was as much alone as John was.

Sherlock had been unique, but so was his brother. They were intellectually superior to their peers, yet they both lacked the humanizing quality of complex emotions. It had made them strong against the harshness of the world at the same time it had separated them from it.

John had been Sherlock's link, his envoy, his translator to the world. He had filled in and made up for Sherlock's emotional gaps (when he wasn't looking after the man's body during the hated times when Sherlock cared only for his mind).

Mycroft had similar deficiencies. Perhaps John could help Mycroft, make up for the parts of humanity he deemed worthless.

But how?

He had body guards, errand runners, messengers, bosses, and underlings. There wasn't much he didn't need-other than, perhaps, a companion; someone to talk with, spend time with, to 'relax' him when stressed. John knew Mycroft wasn't the sort to enjoy inane conversation (wouldn't be able to talk about work at all, surely). That left relaxing him, taking the edge off when things got to be 'too much'.

John could do that for him.

Before he could second guess himself, John approached Mycroft, ignoring his aborted questions. He turned the man towards himself before dropping to his knees. He shook off Mycroft's attempt at conversation and concentrated his attention on Mycroft's lap (before he lost his nerve).

When Mycroft restrained John's wrists, emotion swelled up in John, threatening to choke him: the grief, the frustration, the need to be useful to anyone-to John's remaining proof that Sherlock had existed (to know that the last few years hadn't been a horribly wonderful dream). He wanted to help Mycroft, desperately so.

Somehow, John mustered the strength to vocalize his thoughts.

It was a surprise, when John was released and allowed to continue. Something shifted inside John. The heaviness of Sherlock's loss felt somewhat lighter. He had a _task_, an _expectation_ of him, and someone willing to be _tended_.

Bolstered by the emotional change this accomplishment brought, John set to work.


	3. Chapter 3

*After The Diogenes Club*

It was an unusually lovely day, so John opted to walk a bit instead of immediately flagging another taxi.

Five minutes after leaving Mycroft's office, John allowed himself to think about what he'd done.

He'd begun to panic on the way out of Mycroft's office, but the man's expectation of John's return had brought a peace that John hadn't felt since before the Met's botched arrest.

He _finally_ understood what the nagging sensation had been back in his flat: the need to be depended on, to be responsible for someone's care or betterment.

John had felt it before, with his work as a

doctor, but being with Sherlock for so long had fed his need and increased it. It had been like giving cocaine to user. Sherlock had unwittingly fed John's addiction for care-giving for the past few years, 'up-ing' the dose when a case dragged on for too long or when Sherlock was injured. John would drop everything and tend to his friend, restoring his body back to health after he'd put it through hell.

It had gotten to the point where trying to keep a girlfriend became pointless. He would eventually stop focusing on them, turning, in the end, to Sherlock. His drug of choice.

The women would come and go, but not Sherlock. Sherlock was _always_ there.

Until he _wasn't_.

John knew that his increasingly emotional state was caused by Sherlock's absence from his life, but he'd never realized just _how_ dependent on Sherlock he'd become. Sherlock had needed John, but John had never really looked at their relationship in reverse.

They'd been feeding each other, two addicts caught in a vicious cycle.

When Sherlock died, the cycle had broken, but the need had remained, getting steadily worse and leaving John frantic. Without Sherlock to sustain him emotionally (and finding everyone else inadequate for his needs), he'd finally turned to Mycroft: the closest thing to Sherlock he'd ever get.

Until he'd stood in Mycroft's office, broken and hurting, he'd had no idea how to fix himself.

Walking sedately down the street with the taste of Mycroft on his tongue, John thought he was on his way to recovering (though certainly not in a way his former therapist would have advised).

John wasn't conflicted about the blowjob or the hand job. He'd dabbled with men before, just never with any real attachment beyond wartime comfort or the occasional one-night stand. He wasn't having a mid-life breakdown over a homosexual tryst with his best friend's brother.

No, John only wondered, with no small amount of bemusement, at how _much_ he'd enjoyed the act.

Was it being on his knees? That had always been arousing for John but...

Was it giving himself over to be used for another's pleasure? (Another turn-on of his.)

Or was it something about Mycroft Holmes: the worldly and unattainable brother of the extraordinary Sherlock Holmes, letting ordinary John ruffle his stoicism and drive him into revealing human wants and desires?

The sight of the elder Holmes, debauched and shaken, had nearly pushed John over the edge without one touch to his cock. He hadn't expected the man to oblige John with that lovely hand job. Then again, all of John's plans seemed to checked themselves at the door when he'd entered the room.

The panic began to creep in as he'd righted his appearance.

_Why_, he'd thought, had Mycroft let John (for all intents and purposes) molest him? _Why_ had he even bothered to help John find release at all? _Pity_?

John Watson _hated_ pity.

He'd hated it after he'd been shot.

When he'd been unable to walk without a cane.

When Sherlock had fallen to his death, leaving John behind.

He couldn't stand pity, hadn't wanted to look at Mycroft's passive face only to see pity in his eyes. So John had risen to leave without another look or word, fleeing the oppressive silence filling the room. He hadn't anticipated Mycroft stopping him (or saying _anything_ really), so his command to return a shock. A pleasant surprise.

John had been relieved. His impulsiveness apparently hadn't repelled or offended Mycroft. He would be allowed to return to manage his needs (and his grief), as well as give Mycroft whatever 'tension relief' he required.

He wouldn't be a replacement for Sherlock (no one could), but he was the next best thing. John hoped it would be enough.

Smiling at his new lease on life, John waved down a cab to return to his flat, looking forward to next Thursday-looking forward to _something_.


	4. Chapter 4

Water trailed across the cup in John's hands, washing away the soap and dregs of his last tea. Voices traveled to him from the turned-down telly as he dried and returned it to the cupboard.

It was a rainy Wednesday night, following a rainy Wednesday day, and John had spent the majority of it drinking tea and watching crap telly.

There wasn't really anything to watch this late besides old reruns and random talk shows, but it had been an unhappy toss-up between the drivel of simpering actresses or sitting in front of his computer, seething at the Daily Mail's latest attack on Sherlock.

Though to be fair, most of the article had been focused on John. He took it as sign that the press was running out of salacious material to print about Sherlock, if they were going to the trouble to write about his boring, old sidekick.

Some trash-column journalist had gotten hold of a comment he'd made to a very rude and persistent paparazzo, only days after Sherlock's burial.

It hadn't been John's fault, not really. He'd been depressed, angry, lashing out at anyone-particularly the bugger who had followed him for nearly two blocks, hounding him with questions about his private life before John had managed to hail a cab. He couldn't remember what he'd said to the annoying berk, but the annoying berk certainly had (though why they hadn't printed anything about it months ago when it had happened was anyone's guess).

John's day had started with tea, toast, and the morning paper. Flipping through it, he'd found a candid picture of John and Sherlock (clearly an amateur's work) on the last page. Briefly, he wondered how much the photographer had gotten for it. He soon forgot about the photo in favor of the article. Some bint of a journalist had taken the words of anguish he'd uttered two months ago and painted a tragic story of denial and emotional abuse (supported by anonymous sources).

The whole story had made his blood boil, prompting John to email its author and the paper's editor in complaint. Still needing an outlet, he'd turned to the rest of his rage out on his blog. Unsurprisingly, the post had received quite a few hits.

His day effectively ruined, John had opted to sulk indoors, completely forgetting to call Harry in the process.

John's week had flown by surprisingly fast. To avoid his growing trepidation of his ambiguous appointment with Mycroft, John had done everything he could to occupy himself. He'd put in a few shifts at Sarah's practice, put in applications at a few local A&E's, visited his sister, scrubbed down the surfaces in his flat, and laundered every dirty cloth and garment he could find.

Masochistically, it had been a relief to happen across that infuriating composition this morning: he'd run out of things do. Vexation had completely blocked out any worries he might have entertained about his engagement the next day.

But now, preparing to turn in for the night, it was all that was on his mind.

Sighing at the mess that was his life, John flipped off the lights and telly and retired to his room. He tossed and turned for over half an hour, unable to get comfortable. Sleep was eluding him-and somehow John knew he'd need all the sleep he could get.

Nothing else for it, John supposed, but to turn to the age-old sleep remedy.

John closed his eyes and slipped a hand inside his pants, wrapping it around himself. A good wank should solve his problem.

He hardened swiftly, thoughts of perky breasts and creamy thighs taking him higher. Then an image intruded: Mycroft, his head thrown back and moaning in pleasure. John gasped, nearly overcome by the unbidden thought. The illicitness of masturbating to the man was extremely arousing. John had occasionally gotten off to thoughts of Sherlock (thought not since his death), but he'd never dared to fantasize about Mycroft.

Feeling a blush spread across his skin, John pulled his cock harder, imagining the hand around himself to be Mycroft's.

A low moan dragged from John's throat as he worked himself, thinking of those large hands pumping him, rubbing a thumb across his crown...

John's hips bucked, lost in the fantasy, but needing more.

He wished Mycroft was here, stroking him firm and steady (like he'd done in his office, after John had sucked him off), perhaps letting John take him into his mouth again, allowing him to lick and suck while Mycroft jacked his cock. His mouth felt so empty...

Lifting his other hand without a second thought, he inserted three fingers into his mouth. Saliva immediately began to well up, forcing John to swallow and suck around his fingers, thrusting them in and out...

He moaned, sucking harder and stroking faster, trapped between the dual sensations. With his eyes closed, John could almost believe it was _Mycroft_ tightening his grip as he twisted his fist up and down John's leaking cock, that it was _Mycroft_ he was fellating, that it was _Mycroft_ fucking his face-

John's cry was muffled by his own hand as he shot his release onto his belly, back bending like a bow from the strength of his convulsions. While the last rope of come dribbled down his cock, John lay panting and shaking. It was only the thought of waking to dried semen that made him leave the bed for a wet rag.

He collapsed back into bed, his limbs loose and heavy as he snuggled beneath the covers, clean and sated.

His worries could wait 'til morning, he decided, drifting off into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft

Mycroft glanced up from his reports to the clock on the wall.

10:37 A.M.

He was expecting John in roughly an hour, and he was passing the time by wrapping up his paperwork.

It had been a busy week. Sherlock's investigations had led to a fruitful raid in Brighton three days ago, after several days of intense planning. The whole operation had been conducted under the cover of night. The necessary people had been arrested and all evidence was confiscated before twilight lightened the skies.

The interrogations that had followed, as well as coordinating Sherlock's next move, had consumed the rest of Mycroft's week. Between Mycroft's surveillance network and Sherlock's legwork, they were tracking down the assassins Moriarty had hired.

The man Mycroft's operatives had captured three days ago had been Mrs. Hudson's would-be killer.

It had been difficult for Sherlock, letting Mycroft arrange the takedown (ever the avenging angel), but in the end the raid had gone off without a hitch.

Mycroft's specially-trained team had been working closely with his brother since the faked suicide. Sherlock had pulled the ruse off on his own (well, with help from a few key people), but he'd had the sense to come to Mycroft afterwards for assistance. He wouldn't have had the resources or connections to go it alone for long, at any rate.

Much of the past two months had been spent poring over surveillance footage and spying. It was quite the relief to have one part of the problem dismantled.

One assassin down, two to go-as well as any remaining links in the chain that might present themselves.

His brother had been positively elated when they'd apprehended the tattooed thug. Mycroft sympathized with him. With each strand of Moriarty's web they cut, it was one step closer Sherlock came to resuming his work (after the legalities were smoothed over).

One step closer to John Watson.

Mycroft had noted the increased tension in his brother, the quickened temper, and the sharpened edge of his tongue. It seemed the doctor's influence on his brother had been a beneficial one, but without him, Sherlock was visibly starting to revert to the man he'd been before he'd met John. Mycroft just hoped he wouldn't go so far as to indulge in his old 'habit' again. It had been such a chore, getting him clean...

How interesting it was that both Sherlock and John should exhibit signs of decline when removed from each others' company-especially when logic dictated that severing their relationship would be beneficial to at least _one_ of them. But no, it seemed that while they had previously survived when alone, the two had adapted and then thrived as a symbiotic pair-but it seemed to have changed them. Alone again, both parties appeared worse off than they were before, with no sign of improvement.

Mycroft needed to gather more data to be sure of the accuracy of his observations, but for now he'd have to wait (and hope the remnants of Moriarty's ring were dispatched as soon as possible-for both John and Sherlock's sakes).

Yes, the sooner this matter was dealt with, the better for everyone.

John

John dug through his dresser for a decent jumper, desperately trying not to think of it as preparing for a date.

He had only half an hour to get to the Diogenes Club, no thanks to Harry.

John had woken later than he'd intended, but that had been fine. Still plenty of time to get ready, he'd thought. After a light breakfast, he'd showered and shaved in an effort to look his best (and to be prepared for anything).

Towel wrapped around his waist, he'd been on the verge of getting dressed when he'd found his progress halted by a call from Harry.

Distressed as she was, it had been difficult to make out just what the problem was through all the tears and slurred words. After several repeated questions, he'd managed to learn that she'd approached her pretty colleague-and been turned down.

If there was one definite fault in being a Watson, it was that they sometimes felt things too deeply.

"Just figured I'd *hic* talk to y-you, " Harry had slurred. "I mean, y-you've done the *hic* the whole 'requited' thing, right? Y-you under-understand..."

John had gritted his teeth, kicking himself for drinking with Harry a few weeks ago, when he'd been especially depressed. He really should know better by now. He'd always been a confiding drunk.

He had spilled certain...feeling...type...things...he may or may not have felt about Sherlock to his sister, after having one too many beers. He'd been confused before Sherlock's suicide, but now he was more confused than before, unsure where his affection for the man ended and where the grief and 'what-ifs' began.

It grated against John, having his inner conflict thrown into his face just as he was about to have a morally-questionable meeting with his dead-crush's brother.

It just wasn't on.

But like the good brother he tried to be, he dutifully listened to his distraught sister prattle on for an hour whilst sitting in his room, naked as a jaybird, chiming in when he thought she expected an answer. By the time she _finally_ hung up, John was feeling more than a little put-upon and was late, to boot.

Settling on a plain beige jumper, John finished dressing as quickly as he could before rushing out of his flat.

The trip to Mycroft's club took longer than his last, probably because he was full of pins and needles of anxiety as opposed to flames of righteous indignation. Frankly, John preferred the latter. He could deal with anger, use it. This...uncertainty...of where this course was leading him put John on edge (in both good and bad ways).

Boundaries and rules would have to be established, John thought, as he paid the taxi and entered the building. And knowing Mycroft, he'd have them in spades.

John walked swiftly through the Club to what could accurately be described as John's trial before his judge, jury, and executioner-all rolled into one person.

Standing before the door, John straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and knocked. At Mycroft's beckoning, John opened the door and entered.


	6. Chapter 6

Stepping into the room, John carefully avoided looking at Mycroft until after he had gently pulled the door shut behind him. The 'snick' of the door somehow managed to sound as loud as a firecracker in the silence of the room.

Falling into a modified parade rest, John finally lifted his gaze to the man behind the desk.

Immaculate as ever in his suit- and vested-attire, Mycroft was sitting straight-backed in his chair with his hands folded together atop the multitude of papers on his desk, an expression of polite interest on his face.

John wondered if it was faked for his benefit or if the man was genuinely interested in anything to do with him. The Holmes brothers were excellent mimics of normal emotion, when the situation called for subterfuge on their part.

As they stared each other down, each trying to read the other, John wondered what had moved Mycroft to invite him back. His interactions with John before had _always_ been Sherlock-related; there was no need for Mycroft to have involved himself with John ever again.

And here was John, a _good_ little masochist, picking at the scab on the wound Sherlock had left in him. What was he _doing_ here?

Mycroft cleared his throat, an amused smile playing about his lips, as though he could read John's thoughts. Gesturing imperiously to a set of chairs before his desk, Mycroft broke the ice.

"Please sit down, John. I believe we have much to..._discuss_."

John nodded in agreement, though his tension made it more of a ducking/jerking motion. He crossed the room and sat in one of the proffered chairs.

A pregnant pause stretched between them again.

John knew he should say something-anything- but his thoughts were scattered and his tongue turned to lead by uncertainty. How does one "discuss" a blowjob given in a veritable fit of emotional weakness? How does one "discuss" a sexual attack (however allowed it might have been)? How does one sit in a twisted parody of normalcy when all they can think of is dropping to their knees to service the man before him again?

John swallowed as saliva flooded his mouth at the very thought.

Squirming a bit in his seat, he struggled to reign in his libido. Mycroft's gaze felt like an x-ray, seeing straight through to John's core: seeing his nervousness, his needs, his fears, his desires...Mycroft turned his attention to the desktop, selecting a pen and a sheet of paper.

John released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. If the sheer power of the man's stare was enough to take his breath away, God help him if Mycroft _touched_ him again.

"As difficult as this may be, John, I _do_ require some answers from you. You see, I'm not accustomed to such encounters in my place of business."

Again, his eyes caught and held John's, but this time John had gained some control over himself; he cleared his throat to respond. "Um, yes. Hehe...don't suppose many people expect that sort of thing to, um...happen..." He trailed off, gathering his thoughts. "I, uh, I owe you an apology. Um, for disturbing you...well like _that_." John might not have been able to properly voice his actions, but he could certainly apologize for them.

Mycroft's lips twisted in an ironic sort of smile.

"I assure you, John, it didn't disturb me _nearly_ as much as you seem to think. I found it rather intriguing though. Curious. Have you always been so..._inclined_ to such boldness? Or is it a _new_ development?"

Leave it to Mycroft to find a subtle way to ask John if Sherlock's suicide had turned him into a sex-crazed lunatic.

Unfortunately, John didn't think he was too far off the mark. Before Sherlock's death-before he'd even _met_ Sherlock-John had always had fairly vanilla encounters (men and women, alike). He never _minded_ when things got a bit kinky, but he'd never actively _sought_ it out. He'd never been the one to surprise his partner with sex in a public place or anything much out of the norm.

It _was_ only recently-very recently-that he'd been entertaining unusual thoughts and desires...ones relating to a certain government official...

Choosing to look at a rather handsome paperweight than directly at Mycroft, John considered his words carefully.

"No, it's not something I usually do at all. Ever. It wasn't even what I came here to do...This might sound silly, but it, well...it just sort of...happened."

John sighed, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, burying his face in his hands. God this was embarrassing...

Mycroft interrupted his attempt to explain himself.

"The last time you were in my office, you said you 'needed it'. What did you mean?"

Ah, that.

Feeling his face flush, John kept his head in his hands, speaking to the room in general.

"Since Sherlock..." John couldn't bring himself to say 'died', not yet. "No one's really...needed me. Everyone has their own lives, their own jobs, when mine is gone. When my _everything_ is gone. No one _needs_ me, really _needs_ me not like Sherlock did. We depended on each other, helped each other, and now... I was so angry with you last week. I was going to rage at you for your part in this, to make you _understand_...but when I got here I just...I don't know, I just _couldn't_. But I still needed someone, something... I needed to be of use to someone and you were probably the only one who wouldn't have turned me away. I wanted to help you and _that_ was the only way I could think of..."

John trailed off lamely, ashamed by his own admission and by his inability to look the man in the eyes when he'd said it; when he'd told Mycroft he'd whored himself to the man he'd held responsible for Sherlock's death, putting him into such an emotional upheaval in the process.

A touch, fingers under his chin-he hadn't even heard the man _move_- tilted his head up. John forced himself to open his eyes and look up. Mycroft had moved to lean against the front of his desk, facing John, but much closer now.

Close enough to touch.

A wave of relief swept through John. If Mycroft was touching him, then perhaps he wasn't repelled by John's candor. The desk that had been between them had made John feel so alone in the room and he hadn't even realized it.

John relished Mycroft's touch and leaned into it slightly, grateful for how human it make him feel; no longer quite as empty as he was used to feeling lately.

Holding John's chin between his forefinger and thumb, Mycroft seemed to be weighing his words.

"You wished to be of use to me? I wonder...did you do this for my brother? Did you get on your knees and _help_ him as well? He always was quite selfish. I'm sure he'd have accepted your..._assistance_...Are you simply transferring it to me, then?

He squeezed John's chin firmly as he spoke, eyes hardened by some emotion John hadn't seen from him before. Protectiveness? Jealousy?

John shook his head slowly in Mycroft's grasp, wanting to banish that emotion from his eyes, but needing to maintain contact with the man.

"No, I never touched Sherlock, sexually. Or offered to do so. Just you."

"Hmm," Mycroft's eyes softened and the pressure eased up on John's chin. "Just me. You wanted to be _useful_ to me, but you offer your services to me differently than you did my brother. Why?"

"Because you're different. You don't need me the same way Sherlock did."

Silence stretched between them again while Mycroft turned over the doctor's words, never releasing his hold on John's face. When he spoke again, there was a trace of uncertainty tingeing his voice (and perhaps hopefulness?).

"This occurrence of last week...did you wish it to continue?"

Finding his throat too tight to speak, John nodded his assent.

"You would do this-offer the use of your body-to me?"

Another nod.

Mycroft's eyebrow lifted skeptically.

John cleared his throat. "I assure you, it doesn't disturb me nearly as much as you'd think." He stared the elder Holmes down, pleading with his eyes for him to believe him.

"There would need to be rules, if we are to continue this..._arrangement_."

John nearly laughed at how sardonically the man had said the word. "I'm fairly negotiable, but all the same I'd prefer to take permanent bodily harm off the table. And I may not be squeamish when it comes to body fluids, but if we restricted them to just sweat, semen, and blood, I'd be much grateful."

"Blood?" Mycroft inquired, eyebrows raised slightly.

"Like I said, I'm fairly negotiable."

Mycroft nodded. "I accept your boundaries. I'd add that our 'meetings' not be allowed to interfere with out duties-work or otherwise. Mine have a habit of being perpetually...delicate."

"Agreed, and perhaps we could text? If we needed to...reschedule?" God, business had never sounded so dirty.

"Amenable. I'll draw up a contract and send it over for your perusal. When mixing business with pleasure, I find it safer for both parties to be fully aware of their boundaries."

"That's, uh fine. Is that, um, _all_?" John squeaked out. Having Mycroft close enough to feel the heat emanating from him, to be _touching_ John, was driving him to distraction (even though part of him was paying _full_ attention).

"Not quite, I think." Mycroft looked down seriously at him before slowly leaning down and pressing his lips to John's. The doctor's eyes drifted shut as he allowed the elder Holmes to gently lick into his mouth and slide his tongue against the one inside.

John moaned softly, leaning up into the kiss and losing himself in it. The hand that had gripped John's chin slid around to cup the nape of John's neck, tilting and holding him exactly where Mycroft wanted.

He felt dominated, owned-and Mycroft had barely touched him.

A shiver of anticipation ran through John. Feeling it, Mycroft's lips twitched against John's. A smile, John realized. He whimpered when Mycroft pulled back, murmuring "Lovely" as he retreated.

Mycroft pulled John gently by the grip on his neck, directing him out of the chair to kneel between his spread feet. His hand moved from John's neck to his hair, running through the short strands.

"It's been such an arduous week. So _stressful_. I'd be obliged if you could help me to relieve the tension I have?" And what a lovely tension it was. The man's trousers were already tented by his obvious arousal.

I did that, John thought (with no small amount of pride).

Reverently, John leaned forward to give a long, slow lick to the impressive bulge, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's. A deep sound of approval erupted from Mycroft's throat.

Reaching up to the fastenings on the man's trousers, John released the button before slowly easing down the zipper's pull-tab. John thought the grating of the zipper teeth sounded particularly obscene in the stark primness of Mycroft's office.

He opened Mycroft's trousers wide and nuzzled him through his pants, breathing in his musky scent. Mycroft's hand clenched in John's hair and pressed him tighter against his trapped erection. When John began mouthing him through the material, Mycroft released a soft moan, rocking ever so slightly against the hot, wet mouth.

Showing mercy on the man, John tugged the waistband of Mycroft's pants down, revealing his gorgeously long erection.

Gripping the base, John licked another stripe along it, trailing saliva from hilt to tip.

He wasted no time in taking Mycroft's cock into his mouth, groaning in pleasure at the sharp taste of the precome oozing from the tip.

Needing more of Mycroft, John bobbed his head up and down the man's shaft, stroking with his hand what wasn't inside his mouth. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the cock in his mouth as he licked and sucked.

Not bothering to hold back, Mycroft moaned as John lavished his attention on him, completely unrestrained in his enthusiasm. Slowly, so as to not alarm the man with his teeth around his cock, Mycroft rocked his hips back and forth, fucking the needy little mouth. John moan, his own arousal ignored in favor of servicing Mycroft.

Mycroft tugged on John's hair until he pulled off his cock with a wet 'pop'.

Following the hand's direction, John was urged to his feet, his own cock shifting uncomfortably with the movement.

"It occurs to me that we haven't discussed how _far_, exactly, you are willing to let me go in regards to your 'submission' to my needs."

Swallowing roughly, John wrapped his hand around Mycroft's length and resumed stroking him; the resulting hitch in Mycroft's breath was very satisfying. "I'm no blushing virgin, Mr. Holmes. I'm more than willing to tend to your needs in _any_ way you might require."

A deep purr tore from Mycroft's chest as his eyes darkened with lust.

He dragged John up by the nape of his neck for a searing kiss, wrapping an arm about his waist to pull him close. With their bodies flush together, their height differences showed: Mycroft's cock rubbed against John's belly while John's erection pressed into Mycroft's thigh. John began rocking his hips, effectively humping the other man as he was orally fucked.

With his head tilted up by the hand on his neck, his arms snaked around Mycroft's neck and waist, and grinding against the man's leg, John was sure he looked like quite the cock slut.

He was equally sure that he didn't give a damn.

John might have been content to hump his way to completion twenty years ago, but nowadays he needed more than this meager friction to achieve orgasm.

This would all be so much easier if they weren't wearing clothes.

John was intensely curious how a naked Mycroft Holmes looked.

Despite Sherlock's past attacks on the man's waistline, Mycroft Holmes's weight was fairly average for his age. Not fat at all, just having a bit more fluff around his middle than Sherlock's lean and toned frame had possessed.

Maintaining the kiss, John slid the arm he had around Mycroft's waist to his front. Boldly, he began to unbutton Mycroft's vest, caressing him as he moved up, button by button.

The undressing didn't go unnoticed. Mycroft hummed against John's lips as he firmly cupped John's ass and squeezed. The retaliation pulled a muffled yelp from John, as well as a thrust to his thigh.

Spreading the vest open, John made sure to thumb each of Mycroft's nipples ruthlessly before unbuttoning his dress shirt, working from the top to the bottom. The only thing blocking John's view of his naked chest was a thin white undershirt, translucent though it was.

Breaking the kiss with a playful nip, Mycroft pulled away to remove his unbuttoned garments, his eyes never leaving John's. After tossing them onto a nearby chair, he pulled John towards him by his jumper. He pulled it over John's head, taking his white undershirt with it. Teasingly, he ran a soft-palmed hand over John's nipples, his chest, his midriff...

Satisfaction shone in Mycroft's eyes as he perused his lover's body. Though John was beginning to soften in his own middle, he still retained some of the tautness from his army days (running everywhere after Sherlock hadn't hurt either).

John toed off his shoes, confident that wherever this was going, he wouldn't want to be wearing pants.

Lashes lowered seductively, John flicked open his belt and unfastened his trousers. In a sort of strip tease, he slowly dragged the zip down the length of his erection. John cupped it and rocked into his own palm, teasing himself.

Mycroft stepped close to push down John's pants and trousers, letting them drop to the floor. He took hold of John's hip and used it to pivot him, reversing their positions so that John's back was to the desk. Mycroft retreated until his legs hit the edge of a chair. He sat down on it, yanking John forward to straddle his lap. It was a tight fit; there would be bruises adorning John's legs tomorrow.

But John paid no mind to any discomfort in his legs. The new position allowed John's swollen cock to rub against Mycroft's, still standing tall out of his trousers.

It felt so dirty to be pressing his nude body to Mycroft's mostly clothed one. He rested his hands on Mycroft's shoulders and rocked his hips back and forth, rubbing their cocks together.

Moaning, Mycroft grasped John's hip as he angled John's head down for a heated kiss.

Taking a hand off his shoulder, John reached down and wrapped it around their straining cocks.

It was glorious. Silken heat over steel, they moved together in John's grip, precome and sweat easing the way. They thrust against each other awkwardly, Mycroft's hips pinned down by John's weight. The friction of John's hand on them occasionally crossed the line from pleasure to pain, creating an edge that took them higher.

John worked his hips into his fist, sliding against Mycroft faster and faster.

When John ran his thumb across both their crowns, he broke away from Mycroft's lips to throw his head back in a long groan. Christ he was close...

Mycroft nipped and sucked at the doctor's exposed neck, littering his flesh with bruises and teeth marks. A particularly vicious bite near John's collar bone sent John over the edge.

His grip tightened convulsively around them as he shot his release onto his hand and belly, biting his lip to muffle his cry.

The sight of John coming apart above him and John's last squeeze had Mycroft bucking his hips in climax, sinking his teeth into the doctor's good shoulder as he groaned through each spurt.

John all but collapsed against Mycroft. The two men panted and clutched each other as they recovered from their pleasure. Eventually, John gained enough control over himself to sit up and survey the damage. Mycroft's hair was a bit mussed, he was pleased to note. Most of the semen had managed to fall on John- including Mycroft's.

He ran his fingers through their mingled release, smearing and rubbing their combined scents into his skin. Mycroft's hand joined in, slipping his fingers over John's belly absently.

Reaching his clean hand over to his suit jacket, Mycroft retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and proceeded to clean them off before the semen dried too much.

Carefully maneuvering his way off Mycroft's lap, John's knees protested their abuse rather loudly now that a hard on wasn't drowning out the pain. He wasn't used to having sex in chairs. Not that he particularly _minded_, though. The pleasure had been worth the pain.

John smiled shyly as he began redressing. His smile was returned as Mycroft retrieved his shirt, doing up the buttons.

John was pulling his jumper on when another pair of hands helped tug it into place. After it passed over his head, John found himself looking up into Mycroft's blue eyes. Taking hold of John's chin, he leaned down and brushed a gentle kiss on John's lips. He pulled back after a moment to grace John with a genuine smile.

"Thank you, John. If I may say so, I believe that was just what the doctor ordered."

Smirking mischievously, John stepped close to press a kiss to Mycroft's neck. "I might have to order you to a round of _private_ therapy sessions, then. With a _stressful_ job like yours, you need a proper tension release every now and then."

Giving John a brief nipping kiss and a smile, Mycroft stepped back. "Then I'll leave myself in your capable hands, Doctor Watson." He glanced at his desk. "I should have the basics of our agreement drawn up tonight. I'll have a courier drop it by your flat. If you should think of any additions, feel free to text them to me. I trust you haven't deleted my number?"

"Um, no. Still got it, yeah." As upset at Mycroft as he'd been after Sherlock's death, he hadn't been able to delete his number-though he never imagined needing it for something like _this_.

The traces of come on his skin were creating an itchy feeling on his abdomen. Anxious to find relief in a hot shower, John decided not to drag their encounter any longer. Besides, after getting off with _Mycroft Holmes_ of all people, he preferred not to leave on an awkward note.

"I'll let you know if anything comes to mind. Uh, same time next week, then?"

"Certainly." Mycroft stole another kiss from him before moving to sit behind his desk.

John's last impression of the man, before closing the door, was of Mycroft using his letter opener as a mirror to tidy his appearance. Promising himself to _thoroughly_ muss his hair next time, John walked down the hall with a small bounce in his step.


	7. Chapter 7

John absently pushed the door of his flat closed as he studied the envelope in his hand.

True to his word, Mycroft had sent a courier to deliver whatever it was he had drawn up. It had been roughly eight hours since John had walked out of the Diogenes Club and it appeared that at least one of them had been productive today.

Eyes on the yellow packet, John felt about on the table for the remote to turn off the telly. What he had in his hand was far more interesting than anything the BBC could churn out at the moment.

There was something about the nature of the packet- something indecent, naughty- that made John not want to open it in the austerity of his combined kitchen/living area.

Picking up his fresh cup of tea, John retired to his bedroom, intent on reading every little word until his eyes crossed.

He tossed the packet onto the bed. He shucked off his shoes and socks before pulling off his battered, cream-colored jumper. If he was going to go over the details of his new sex life with the most powerful man in the British government, he wanted to be comfortable. After all, there was no telling where his thoughts might lead...

A shiver ran down John's spine.

Smiling, he moved to sit on the bed, straight-backed against the headboard with the packet in his lap. He tore it open carefully, and slid out a small sheaf of papers held together with a paperclip. Tossing the bit of metal into his nightstand, he turned his attention to the rough draft of their agreement-though there was nothing 'rough' about it.

It was typed on expensive stationary. Professional yet elegant, it had simplicity and a touch of mystery (much like the man who sent it).

There were ten pages if you included the cover letter. John briefly skimmed through the whole document before starting over, practically committing certain paragraphs to memory.

After his seventh read of the manuscript, John was convinced of the impression it left upon him: this was a relationship. The papers in his hand represented the dry, bare-bones of a relationship: the 'Darling I will's' and 'Darling I will not's'; the 'what will happen to Darling if they do a no-no'. If it was the norm to draw up a contract before committing to a relationship, this is what it would look like, John imagined.

Mycroft had gone all out in its design. The points he and Mycroft had agreed upon were stated with the eloquent phrasing of a lawyer, yet frank enough that a layman could understand it. Even going so far as to build upon them and add what could only be considered 'protection clauses'.

Mycroft Holmes had taken time out of his day to do this, to make it clear as to what lines they both didn't feel comfortable crossing. Though to be honest, there was less in regards to Mycroft in the wording than there was about John. Much less.

John was curious. He had expected a list of rules a yard long for Mycroft himself. Yet the agreement in his hands left a lot of things on the table in terms of sexual exploration. John had always thought Mycroft to be quite stiff-shirted and formal, but appearances can be deceiving. After all, the man who had created this document had also brought John off twice in his own office.

Clearly John didn't know Mycroft as well as he had assumed (which was to say, not well at all).

The way he had pulled John up for that kiss and _ground_ against him...

Mycroft might be able to fake emotions, but it was physically impossible to have faked that erection. Plain, boring John Watson had aroused the stoic, unreachable Mycroft Holmes.

The headiness of that thought made John's cock twitch.

John's phone chimed in his pocket, startling him and sending papers everywhere. He dug out his mobile as he retrieved a page that had fluttered to the floor. It was from Mycroft.

**Any issues with the contents of the packet? -M**

Feeling playful, John typed out a reply in his painstaking manner.

**What makes you think I've even opened it yet? -JW**

It didn't take long for Mycroft to message him back.

**Because you like to solve mysteries. You wouldn't leave one sit idly by on your kitchen table. -M**

John felt a pang, inadvertently reminded of the loss of the (usually) gruesome job he'd had. It wasn't just Sherlock he had lost- it had been his whole life! Well, if he was going to rebuild it, then why not try it with Mycroft Holmes? It couldn't be any more unstable than life with Sherlock had been.

Sitting alone in his poorly heated flat, John felt the loneliness creep up on him again. He typed out another message, seeking a distraction (something he had never had to do before Sherlock died).

**Yes, I've gone through it a few times. It's impressive. Hadn't expected it to be so...encompassing. -JW**

John set the phone in his lap, fiddling with the order of said papers.

Another chime.

**Did you expect anything less of me? You never did answer my question, John. -M**

No he hadn't. John sat pondering for a bit, wanting to keep the conversation honest and direct.

**I'm fine with the document for the most part, though the last few pages were a little disconcerting. Rather wished you were here to sort through it with me. I'm trying to keep boredom at bay. -JW**

Boredom.

John winced as the word brought back memories of an angst-driven, gun-wielding Sherlock. Christ he wished he wasn't alone.

Several minutes passed as John waited for a reply, becoming tenser with each passing minute. Had he crossed a line by saying he wished the man was here?

Another chime.

Frantically, he scrambled to open the message fumbling the phone once or twice in his haste. Embarrassed by how needy for human contact he was, he focused on Mycroft's message.

**Are you the type of man to leave your door unlocked, Doctor Watson? -M**

John blinked down at the screen, wondering what on Earth-

A metallic 'snick' reached John's ears through his partially open bedroom door. A muffled thump followed seconds later.

Someone was in his flat.

Torn between the phone and his growing alarm, John sat frozen as he flashed through his options. Giddy from his meeting with Mycroft earlier, it must have slipped his mind to secure the front door. Fuck.

Unsure of the coincidence of the intruder, John decided not to take any chances. He reached over to the nightstand and, quietly as he could, retrieved the gun inside the drawer. Aiming steadily at the door, he waited. Half expecting the knock to his door, John's forefinger didn't even twitch on the trigger.

The door opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes, dapper as ever in his suit and utterly unconcerned about the gun pointed in his direction.

John collapsed back against the headboard and lowered the gun, flicking on the safety. "Fuck."

Raising his eyebrows simultaneously, Mycroft gave him a decidedly mischievous smile. "Is that an invitation?"

John flushed. His mind had certainly been wandering in that direction before his arrival. "An invitation would have been me letting you into the flat." He rolled onto his side, replacing the weapon in the drawer.

Mycroft stepped further into the room, sliding off his coat. "My apologies, John. I was in the area when you mentioned desiring my presence. I hope you don't mind my visitation?" He fixed John with a piercing look that made John squirm slightly on the bed.

John had desired his presence, alright.

He cleared his throat. "Um no, not a problem. I was curious about the last few paragraphs. Contact information for a lawyer? Compensation in the event of damage to bodily and/emotional health? It's just... It seems a bit much, don't you think? For what we're doing?"

Not that he knew what _that_ was.

John's eyebrows contracted as he frowned down at the page in his hand. Was Mycroft expecting to hurt him? He wasn't a delicate flower; he was an ex-soldier and a doctor, for God's sake.

Mycroft ambled over to the wooden chair in the far corner of the room. He laid his coat across the back of it and sat on the chair's edge.

So he intended to stay for a while...

"You must understand, John. As a man of my particular position in our government, holding me 'accountable' for a number of offenses is next to impossible. This is a means to secure your safety and equality in this...relationship."

John's heart skipped faster, his mind latching onto the way he'd said 'relationship' for dear life.

"Essentially, it is in place for your protection. Should you, at any time, feel I am taking advantage of you, this will aid you in the event you feel a _legal_ course of action is needed. You have been known to have trust issues, and I am not so presumptuous as to think that Sherlock 'cured' you of them. If any doubts have arisen thus far, I do hope this document well assuage them."

Mycroft glanced down at his folded hands in his lap. He fiddled with a cuff link momentarily, contemplating his phrasing before he continued.

"And regardless of how omniscient you may or may not believe me to be, I cannot predict the future. If you wish to discontinue our arrangement or find a more preferable partner, we will have an understanding in print between us that we may part with no ill will. Conversely, I wouldn't want you to stay out of misplaced feelings of obligation, either."

John licked his lips and looked away. Mixed feelings of relief and gratitude sang through him. Mycroft wasn't pushing him into this. He was trying to make everything as un-intimidating for John as possible, giving him outs and options. It was touching, really. It was the Holmes equivalent of giving flowers or a love note.

John was a bit speechless from the gesture.

Slowly, he gathered up the strewn papers and carefully set them on the nightstand. He looked up at Mycroft from beneath his lowered lids. "You seem to have answered all of my questions. I can't find fault with any of this or think of an addendum for you. I suppose all that's left is the celebration."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him "Celebration?"

Eyeing him coyly, John hoped a little forwardness would get the ball rolling. He shifted up to his knees near the edge of the bed, facing Mycroft. Setting his hands on his belt, John slowly undid the buckle. "Yes. We are in a room with an actual bed. I think that's reason enough to celebrate."

A hunger seemed to spark in Mycroft's eyes. In a fluid motion, he stood and slid off his suit jacket, dropping it on top of his coat. A few steps found him within arm's reach of John. He wrapped a hand around the back of John's neck, his thumb stroking a bruise he had made earlier. John groaned faintly at the memory of its creation. "I seem to be over dressed for such a celebration. Perhaps you could assist me?"

Reaching up, John began to unbutton the man's waistcoat. "I might be up for the task."

He wasn't joking. Already, John's cock had begun to fill and lengthen in his pants.

He made swift work of the waistcoat, soon followed by the dress shirt and undershirt. Lunging forward, John pressed his lips to Mycroft's in a passionate kiss. Releasing him with a nip to his bottom lip, he trailed wet kisses down Mycroft's jaw and neck as his hands explored his pale chest.

Mycroft sighed and hummed in pleasure. He gripped John's hips as kisses peppered his collarbone, moving slowly down to his chest.

John stroked a hand up and down Mycroft's side; his other teased a hard nipple with a fingernail.

A small buck of Mycroft's hips preceded a strangled moan when John sucked his neglected nipple into his mouth without warning. Licking and pinching, John kept up a steady stream of pleasure/pain on the sensitive nips.

The dual sensations sent bolts of arousal to Mycroft's groin. He swiftly hardened in his trousers, aching and full. Groaning, Mycroft buried a hand in John's hair, gripping the short strands and tugging to bring him off his nipple and into a wet, harsh kiss.

It was filled with need, desire, and frustration.

John whimpered as he submitted to the assault on his lips. Precome was beginning to moisten John's pants. He wanted more, _needed_ more. Skimming his hand down Mycroft's exposed chest, John undid the button of his suit trousers and pulled down the zip.

He was met with heat and hardness when he slid his hand into Mycroft's open trousers. He cupped the supreme evidence of his arousal through his pants. A squeeze and a slow stroke wrenched a moan from Mycroft, the sound of it vibrating against John's lips.

Mycroft pulled away and surveyed John with half-lidded eyes. "What do you want, John? How far are you willing to let me go?" His hand massaged the back of John's skull, nails dragging across the scalp.

Leaning into the touch, John moaned softly, his hand still moving on Mycroft's erection. "Anything. Everything. Whatever you want from me, I'm willing."

Gently as he could, John removed his hand from Mycroft's trousers. He dragged his own white undershirt off over his head and tossed it to the floor. Eyes locked with Mycroft's, he undid the belt's buckle, performing a little strip tease for the other man. He eased back and slowly removed both trousers and pants. Completely nude, John rested back onto his elbows with his knees spread, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. "Anything you want to give me, I'll gladly take."

Mycroft raked his gaze up and down John's body, lingering only momentarily on his scarred shoulder.

Bending down, he pushed his trousers and pants to his ankles, caressing his own legs as he did so. John wished they were his own hands on them. Quickly, Mycroft removed his shoes and socks before kicking everything aside and standing naked in all his glory.

John was nearly panting when Mycroft leaned forward over his body. Planting his hands on either side of John's head with a knee between his legs, Mycroft hovered over John with a feral look in his eyes. "Anything?"

John's reclined position angled his face up within inches of Mycroft's. His eyes were glazing over with want and his cock trickled precome down his shaft.

Need pulsed from his core. Never before had John desired so strongly to be taken apart, to be fucked open and _used_.

He wrapped a hand around the thick base of Mycroft's cock and stroked. A thick drop of precome landed on John's abdomen, eliciting a gasp from him. Spreading his legs wider, wanton as a whore, John choked out a 'Please'.

Something in Mycroft's eyes softened at the plea. Tenderly, he bent his head to press slow, feather-light kisses to John's swollen lips. He pulled away after a last lingering kiss. "Let me take care of you."

A shudder went through John, hearing his previous request echoed back.

With gentle coaxing, Mycroft got John to position himself lengthwise on the bed. John lay down with his head resting on a pillow. His knees were bent and his legs spread wide apart, welcomingly.

Mycroft searched the nightstand drawer. Returning to the bed, he knelt between John's legs and set the items he'd found on the covers beside them: a tube of lubricant and a condom.

Stroking John's inner thighs calmingly, Mycroft took a moment to simply stare at the feast before him. John's pulse pattered rapidly beneath Mycroft's fingertips. His chest rose with uneven breath. Bruises littered the sides of John's neck and a flush was spreading across his face and down his chest.

A reedy whine slipped from John as he fisted the sheets, digging his heels into the mattress.

"Shhhh..." Mycroft crooned as he picked up the tube. He dispensed a large dollop onto his hand.

A shiver raked John's body at the first touch to his puckered hole.

Mycroft massaged the tight ring of muscle in small circles, humming in a pleased way when he felt it begin to loosen. He applied a little more pressure and the digit sank in to the first knuckle.

John gasped at the sudden penetration. Mycroft ran his free hand down John's thigh and grasped his leaking cock. He stroked it while slowly thrusting his finger back and forth, effectively distracting John from the mild discomfort.

Mycroft stared at John's opening, mesmerized by the way his finger was clutched by the velvet heat. He briefly removed his finger, adding another dollop of lube to his hand before pushing back in with two.

John moaned. His head tipped back into the pillows. He needed more, faster, _harder_, but was secretly glad Mycroft going slowly, taking the time to fully prepare him. It had been years since he'd last done this and he wanted to enjoy it.

It wasn't long before Mycroft had three fingers buried inside John.

John's hole was slick with lube and loosened by the thrusting, twisting, scissoring of Mycroft's talented fingers. Every now and then, they would graze the tiny gland inside John and set off sparks behind his eyes.

John was rocking his hips back and forth, alternating between impaling himself on Mycroft's fingers and thrusting into Mycroft's tight grip on his cock. He panted, eyes closed and head tossing about on the pillow.

Finally, when he was about to plead for more, both of Mycroft's hands retreated from John's body. He groaned at the loss.

The tearing of the condom wrapper had John snapping his eyes open. He fixed his eyes on the man between his legs.

Carefully, Mycroft rolled the condom onto his swollen erection. He pumped himself a few times once he reached the base, teasing himself. He held John's gaze as he slathered a good amount of lube onto his cock before tossing aside the tube.

The mattress dipped a little when Mycroft shuffled forward on his knees, positioning himself closer to John. He had John lift his hips a moment to place the spare pillow beneath him, canting his hips to make John more comfortable.

Mycroft grasped him behind the knees and propped his legs onto his shoulders, holding him in place by his thighs. The position left John exposed, his slicked hole twitching in anticipation. Mycroft aligned his cock with John's entrance, the tip of his cock against the tight pucker.

Seconds stretched between them as they stared into each other's eyes, the tension growing between them.

This would change things irrevocably, John knew, but his life had already changed for the worse when he'd lost Sherlock. He hoped that gaining this relationship with Mycroft was a start in a better direction, away from the oppressive loneliness that was slowly crushing the life out him. John needed this change, needed to reach out and be connected to another person again. And he had a feeling Mycroft did too.

"Please." John heard the crack in his own voice as he begged with his eyes for Mycroft to continue. A drop of precome dripped down from the tip to his trembling abdomen. His hands fisted in the sheet, preparing for the first thrust.

Mycroft licked his lips. Slowly, so _slowly_, he pushed the head of his cock against the ring of muscle. He felt it gradually open around him.

John groaned, digging his head back into the pillow. _Finally…_

The head popped through, forcing a strangled moan from Mycroft as he was gripped in tight heat. He steadily pushed in, bit by bit, until he was sheathed to the base, his sac resting against John's firm buttocks.

John whimpered quietly while Mycroft panted above him. Mycroft's body was taut and he trembled with the effort of restraining himself. Nearly a minute passed, both content to merely breathe and adjust to the sensations sweeping through them.

John wiggled experimentally. Mycroft tightened his grip on John's legs and gave a tiny thrust before regaining control.

Control was _not_ what John wanted from Mycroft Holmes right now. He wanted to feel _owned_, to feel _used_. Like how he had occasionally felt after doing Sherlock's bidding.

_Don't think like that, not now_, John told himself, furiously. Not with Sherlock's own _brother_ above him, _inside _him… But his mind kept churning and Mycroft _still_ wasn't moving.

If Mycroft wasn't going to take the lead on his own, then John would have to provoke him.

Clenching down on the thick cock in his arse, John writhed against him as much as his position allowed.

That earned him a short, hard thrust.

"_John_."

Mycroft's hold on his legs was going to leave bruises. There was a wild look in his eyes as he breathed unevenly against John's skin.

"_Please_, Mycroft."

Whether it was the 'please' or hearing his name uttered so passionately, Mycroft finally began to move in and out of John. He picked up the pace gradually, lengthening his thrusts. He moved a hand down to grip John's hip, using it to pull John back onto his cock.

John groaned sharply when the small change had Mycroft brushing against John's prostate every few thrusts.

Pleasure sang through John with each jolt inside him. Desperate for more of the intense sensations, John nudged Mycroft closer with his heels. His knees were nearly pressed into his own chest as Mycroft curled over his body.

Mycroft braced himself with a hand beside John's head. Spreading his knees farther apart on the mattress, Mycroft levered himself into John hard, dragging him back into his thrusts with the hand on his hip.

"Oh _God_…"

The new angle had Mycroft pounding John's gland with nearly every thrust. He fucked into John deeper and harder, using the power he gained from pushing off the mattress with his feet.

John was a wreck beneath him. He'd begun a steady stream of "Oh my God yes, fuck yes, please, harder, _please _harder…"

The filthy litany drove Mycroft on, fucking him with increasing intensity every time he heard John's voice break. His bollocks slapped obscenely against John's arse with every deep thrust.

John had to brace himself with a hand on the headboard to avoid braining himself as Mycroft moved him further up on the bed. He bucked up into Mycroft's increasingly erratic thrusts. His orgasm was so close he could almost _taste _it, but he needed more, something to push him over the edge and _break._

Releasing his remaining hold on the sheets, John wrapped his hand around his leaking cock and jacked himself to completion. With a loud cry, John shot his release onto his chest. His whole body convulsed as rope after rope splattered across his heated flesh.

Mycroft moaned as John's body clenched around his cock. The intense pressure and slick _heat_ had Mycroft pounding brutally into John as his own orgasm ripped through him.

Sated, Mycroft rested his head beside John's as his arm collapsed beneath his weight. Tremors ran through his body as he tried not to completely crush the man under him. John hummed in contentment, flying high on the wings of his climax. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, stroking his back lazily as the man recovered from his exertions.

After a few moments, Mycroft lifted his head and met John's eyes. Pleased by whatever he had found in them, Mycroft gave him a slow, genuine smile.

He leaned down and kissed John breathless, still joined as their sweat dried on their skin.


	8. Chapter 8

John P.O.V.

"Stop squirming, John. The less re-arranging I have to do, the better."

Instantly, John froze mid-thrust, anxious to please his lover. He was entirely nude, his torso draped over Mycroft's sturdy desk.

Mycroft himself was behind him seated in his desk chair, fully clothed, with his hands holding apart the pale globes of John's arse.

A teasing tongue flicked lightly across John's winking pucker.

John groaned, tucking his face down against the desk as he struggled not to thrust against its underside again. His hands gripped opposite edge of the desk tightly. A delicate looking paperweight settled once more after having been jostled by John's elbow. Papers on either side of him were in slight disarray from his wiggling.

Nearly two months had passed since John and Mycroft's first night together. The contract had been signed, copies had been distributed, and then the whole thing had been practically forgotten. When you're having so much fun playing a game, why care when no one breaks the rules?

They usually met on prearranged dates and times, but neither turned the other down when an impromptu request for 'company' was received. Most of their encounters took place here, in the primness of the Diogenes Club. The illicitness of touching Mycroft in a (technically) public place never failed to send shivers of arousal down his spine.

John had wondered (on more than one occasion) whether Mycroft had supplies stashed away somewhere for after-sex clean up or if the club's love of privacy extended as far as courtesy maid service for its clients' clandestine affairs. Somehow, he thought it was the later: some tired old woman forced to scrub dried semen stains off of the upholstery.

John would be more uncomfortable with the image if Mycroft's touch didn't banish the thought from his mind. Well, thoughts in general, he supposed. He'd publish his theory that Mycroft's hands instilled a temporary amnesia (for anything but the man's name), but theories had to be proved/disproved by other people. And John didn't like to share.

A brief stab of Mycroft's tongue into his hole startled a yelp from John and brought him back to attention. Unfortunately, not before John could prevent a full-body jerk that scattered papers everywhere and knocked the aforementioned paperweight off the desk entirely.

The sound of shattered crystal left no doubt of the object's current condition.

Yet another mess for the chambermaid, John thought half-hysterically, cringing into the wood beneath him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll replace it. I'm sorry." Shame and arousal warred within John as he waited with bated breath for his lover's response.

Mycroft's grip had tightened momentarily at the crash. It was the only reaction John could discern as his face was hidden in the crook of his own elbow. Mycroft removed his hands from John.

John lay frozen, unsure of what the man intended. The slide of a drawer put John on tenterhooks. Mycroft always seemed to have a variety of toys around to _play _with when he was in a daring mood, and he had yet to use the same one twice.

John stilled himself, hoping the unknown object was an instrument of pleasure and not pain.

True, they dabbled in pain play when John fell into depressions and needed the punishment, but they had never before used pain in a _disciplinary_ manner. John was sure the paperweight was worth more than anything he owned and he'd broken it while disobeying a direct order. Would Mycroft punish him?

He did his best not to flinch when he heard a cap pop open. Lubricant. He had heard the sound often enough to have developed a Pavlovian arousal in response to it. His cock twitched against the underside of the desk, smearing precome with the movement.

A slick finger pushed all the way in and John fought desperately to keep still, groaning faintly at the intrusion. A second and third finger followed, stretching John almost perfunctorily, carefully avoiding his prostate. John breathed unevenly against his arm, biting his lip to prevent his moans from slipping out. Mycroft wasn't speaking at all and that had John worried. Best to keep quiet as possible until he knew where he stood.

Mycroft removed his fingers. Wet sounds came from behind him, which frankly confused John. Surely he'd have heard if Mycroft had undone his zip-

Suddenly, a thick, hard object was prodding John's entrance and sliding in slowly.

Gasping at the unexpected penetration, he tightened his grip on the edge of the desk to center himself.

It had an odd shape, bulbous or spiral, he couldn't tell- all that he knew was that it _wasn't_ Mycroft's cock. Mycroft pushed it in until the entire length of it was inside of him. There was a flick of fingers around the object's base and then it came to life. It moved, vibrating and rotating within John, the sensations lighting up John's prostate almost continuously.

John choked off his cry in his throat, biting down on the flesh of his arm to muffle the truly pathetic whimpers he was making.

Gradually, Mycroft retracted the vibrator (it _had_ to be a vibrator, nothing else could torture him like this) until the tip was just inside his rim, then shoved it back in, hard.

John couldn't repress his wail at being so full, so suddenly. His gland was jolted with every vibration.

He was on pleasure-overload, nearly overwhelmed by the toy fucking him. Mycroft gave him no respite, driving it back and forth inside him roughly. John's toes curled into the carpet. His hips rocked into Mycroft's movements.

This was punishment, John knew. It was on this side of pleasure, but only just. He didn't know whether to beg Mycroft to stop or to let him come. Not that he could really _talk_. His breath was coming out in broken sobs as he shuddered against the desk, his cock dripping precome onto the floor.

Finally, after a last deep shove, the toy stilled inside of him and was pulled out entirely.

John was vaguely aware of a dull thud somewhere beside him and the sound of a zipper being pulled down. He heard wet sounds again before a familiar hardness was pushing into him, sliding in _deep_.

John groaned, pushing back onto Mycroft's thick cock as much as his trembling limbs allowed. Fortunately, Mycroft didn't need much help.

Immediately, he began fucking him hard. His flesh slapped against John's arse as he drove deep inside, taking over the punishment the toy had started. A hand on John's hip and another on his shoulder yanked him back onto Mycroft's cock.

John mewled as his prostate was pummeled with every thrust. The side of the desk bit into the skin of John's pelvis. The pain mixed with the onslaught of pleasure, taking him to the cusp of orgasm.

Mycroft rammed in viciously and stilled with a groan, his hips jerking against John's arse uncontrollably.

Feeling Mycroft fill his passage with his release, John bucked his hips forward and came, his untouched cock painting the underside of the desk with thick streaks of semen. His clenching arse milked Mycroft's spent cock, making him shudder over John's back.

Gently Mycroft pulled out of John's abused hole and returned to his place in his chair.

A cloth wiping across his leaking entrance brought John back from nirvana. He was pulled back by his hips to collapse against Mycroft's front. "I'm sorry 'bout your paperweight an' your reports," John slurred, his head lolling on Mycroft's shoulder.

He felt boneless and sated, but most of all secure, Mycroft's arms wrapped tightly around him.

Mycroft nuzzled fondly into John's neck, breathing him in. "I'm not."

Mycroft's P.O.V.

Later, after John had dressed and left (another rendezvous agreed upon, as well as a lunch date planned for the next day), Mycroft found himself reclining in his chair, twirling a pen whilst deep in thought.

It always amazed him, how receptive John was to his ministrations-rough _or_ gentle. Of the two of them, he was the dominant partner - and he liked it that way. Liked that _John_ liked it that way. With the doctor's army background, Mycroft had thought that the man would attempt to assert more dominance in the bedroom, but he hadn't. He seemed perfectly happy taking direction and pleasing Mycroft as well as he could.

John was quite the repressed submissive, he reflected. The way he'd taken everything Mycroft had given him and had practically begged for more…

Mycroft smiled contentedly at the memory.

It was no wonder John and Sherlock had gotten on so well, as dominating a personality as his brother possessed.

_Sherlock._

Things were going to become complicated once his little brother's mission was concluded. They had never been able to share toys very well as children; Mycroft doubted that Sherlock would be happy sharing his faithful blogger once he was back home- even less so once he deduced the change in dynamics between Mycroft and the doctor.

And as for John…

Arrangements needed to be carefully made for breaking the news to him. John had suffered several traumas in his life already. Mycroft had a fair inkling of the grief that had overtaken John, but only from what he could deduce. They didn't talk about Sherlock, if it could be helped.

Reuniting with Sherlock could be potentially problematic for John's psychiatric health, after witnessing the man's 'suicide'.

It wasn't going to be easy.

This would be messy and painful, and if Mycroft didn't figure out a way to break the truth to John, then his brother would do it himself- with all his usual tact and sensitivity. Mycroft internally cringed at the thought.

They could very well _lose_ John if they didn't do this right. _He_ could lose John.

Mycroft pushed the thought away angrily. It was sentimental, foolish, and oh so _true_. Mycroft had been living in a fairy tale of his own for the past two months, growing closer to the doctor, more addicted…

He'd had a taste of what his brother had, of what he _could_ have, if he were so inclined. It made him envious. The thought of giving the man up left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He needed to prepare for the cold reality that his brother would bring back with him. He was living on borrowed time. But he would be _damned_ if he didn't enjoy it while he could.

A chime interrupted his brooding. Speak of the devil…

**Closing in on Moran. Believe to be the last operative. Will send details to plan his capture in a few days. -SH**

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. Looks like reality was returning sooner than anticipated. Pleased as he was that Sherlock's work was nearly finished, a ball of lead had settled within him. He hated himself a bit for wishing he had more time alone with John. It was a selfish thought and, of the two of them, he wasn't the selfish brother.

But for once, he wished he was.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft's jaw clenched in frustration as the beginning s of a fantastic headache pulsed at his temples. A tense silence filled the room- a dramatic change after the past several minutes of intense arguing. Mycroft sighed softly and massaged his forehead, reigning in his aggravation with his little brother, who was irritably pacing the length of his home's study.

This was not how Mycroft wished to occupy his scant personal time, with only a mere hour before he was due to meet John for lunch.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, the timeframe Sherlock had approximated for the last capture turned out to be much shorter than three days. In fact, it had scarcely been twelve hours from his initial text.

It had been around midnight when Mycroft received an urgent call from his little brother. A stroke of good luck had allowed Sherlock to latch onto the assassin's trail that night, leading to the early apprehension of ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran in a rundown house just south of Brighton.

After a brief, vicious fight, Sherlock had gained the upper hand and managed to render Moran unconscious. He had called Mycroft for immediate assistance and transport as soon as he had the man gagged and handcuffed to an ancient space heater.

Mycroft had sent a select extraction team and a medic to retrieve the pair. No risks would be taken with this prisoner. Sebastian Moran had been the direct threat to John's life (and by extension, Sherlock's). They needed him alive and talking. A confession would go a long way in wrapping up this case- and in securing Sherlock's freedom.

With the prisoner safe in the custody of Her Majesty's secret service, Mycroft was left to deal with his impatient younger brother.

As soon as his shoes had touched London pavement, Sherlock had harassed him about John. Eager to resume his consultation agency, Sherlock was adamant that John be brought up to speed on his continued existence- _today_.

Somehow, Mycroft didn't think he could casually bring it up over tea and sandwiches.

Mycroft considered it a small victory that he had convinced Sherlock to come to his home and not barge straight into John's flat, but the war was far from finished. Getting him to stay here was going to be like pulling teeth.

The issue had already sparked an argument.

Sherlock's agitation at being kept from his life had clashed with Mycroft's exasperation with his brother's impatience and lack of tack, resulting in a shouting match the likes of which they hadn't had in years.

Not since Sherlock had overdosed in a London back alley.

Luckily, Greg Lestrade had happened upon him when Sherlock was conscious enough to have the man contact Mycroft, ensuring a discreet pickup and private room at an emergency care facility. Mycroft had arrived at the facility to ascertain his brother's health, only to emerge from the building half an hour later with their bitter conversation still ringing in his ears. But Sherlock had listened to him. He had stayed and eventually recovered, helped along by the distraction of his little puzzles. That was then, though. His brother had changed after kicking his habit, and had changed yet again when John entered his life.

It seemed that John had become Sherlock's drug of choice and Mycroft was left in the uncomfortable position of keeping him from it, trying to protect John from his brother and Sherlock from himself.

His temple throbbed angrily, bringing him out of his musings.

He sighed heavily. "Sherlock, I am aware of how difficult the past seven months have been for you, but you cannot think only of yourself right now. Give me time to get things in order and to begin the transition of bringing you back to life, legally. Give me time to break this gently to John. He deserves that much at the very least, considering all he has been through."

Sherlock stopped his fevered pacing and turned to scowl at Mycroft, contempt in his stormy eyes. "He is stronger than you think, Mycroft."

"Of that, I have no doubt, but he is still human. To him, you are dead. He has mourned you. Probably _still _mourning you, though I doubt he would be inclined to say as much. You may think everything is smooth sailing now that Moriarty's web is, for all intents and purposes, dismantled, but you would be wrong. The difficulty begins now, with John. You sacrificed a great deal to protect him. Don't let all of your effort be in vain for something as trifling as _impatience_."

Sherlock seemed to visibly deflate at that, unable to avoid the logic of his brother's argument. He looked lost and forlorn, like a child who knew his favorite toy was in the wash and was resigned to wait for its return.

Mycroft wished that Sherlock and John's reunion would be so simple. He had spent nearly three months getting to know John, yet he could not be sure just how the doctor would react to the Holmes brothers' deception.

Mycroft sighed again, taking a swallow of brandy from the tumbler in his hand. He leaned back against the front of his desk, crossing his arms. "This morning, I contacted the couple who moved into 221B. With a small financial incentive and arrangements for a new flat, they are willing to relocate by the end of the week. I assumed you would prefer to return to your old flat. Something _familiar_ after your recent upheaval."

Sherlock started, ripping his gaze from the window he had been staring out and shaking his head violently. "What? Yes, yes of course. 221B would be fine. The sooner, the better. But I don't understand why you need time to tell John that I am still bloody _breathing, _Mycroft. With Moran in custody and his lesser drones scattered in the wind, John is safe now. There is no logical reason to prolong this, this…"

Sherlock flicked his wrist in annoyance, words failing him for once.

"Misery?" Mycroft offered.

Sherlock nodded his head jerkily as he resumed his pacing.

Mycroft followed the aggravated movements for a few seconds as resolve settled over him.

No, there really wasn't a solid, logical reason to keep up the charade anymore. Well, none that Mycroft was interested in sharing with his emotionally-charged little brother. Not right now.

He had kept his affair with John to himself, giving Sherlock no more information than what could be gleaned from his subordinates' reports. After all, it was nobody's business what he and John (two consenting adults) got up to behind closed doors.

But part of Mycroft had kept the secret because he wanted to be selfish, for once.

His brother had always been greedy, taking information and liberties as they suited him and rarely giving anything back in return. Sherlock's friendship with John was quite remarkable given this tendency. Mycroft had oft wondered (before Sherlock faked his death) how the two strong-willed men functioned so well together.

Then Moriarty, subtle as a shadow and deadly as the plague, had turned his attention to Sherlock and left havoc in his wake. The only positive aspects from Moriarty's malice had been Sherlock's sacrifice for his friends and Mycroft's relationship with John.

Mycroft doubted he would have ever gotten closer to John on a personal level if Sherlock hadn't been forcibly removed from the doctor's side. Interacting with John more intimately had shown Mycroft that John was indeed strong, but damaged.

Though John had been overshadowed by Sherlock in the detective's pursuit of distraction, Mycroft could _see_ John now, clearer than ever without his little brother to obstruct his view.

Mycroft had seen John in ways his brother never would (or could): raw, broken, passionate, wanting… and all for _Mycroft_.

Not for _Sherlock_, who was quick to dismiss the base desires and useless sentiment of those around him. Mycroft at least took the time to appreciate and understand the deficiencies and short comings of mankind. Sherlock preferred to shunt them to the side, ignoring them and consequently forgetting the fact that they were a part of John as well.

Mycroft was sure that if Sherlock had ever displayed an interest in John sexually, John would have readily given himself to Sherlock, drawn by the need to be needed.

Mycroft was equally sure that their union wouldn't have been mutually enjoyable. John came alive when following orders and receiving attention, especially in the bedroom. Having a greedy, self-absorbed lover like Sherlock would not have met the doctor's needs.

Sherlock wouldn't have appreciated John, debauched and begging for his lover's touch. He wouldn't have thanked John with his lips and tongue for the _privilege_ of being allowed to take pleasure in the man's willing body.

No, this part of John was for Mycroft alone and he wanted it to remain that way for as long as possible.

Mycroft wanted to be selfish with John, with the facets his little brother could dismiss so casually. In any event, Mycroft was entitled to his privacy.

Unfortunately, prolonging Sherlock and John's separation would require an explanation- one Mycroft was not willing to give just yet.

Again he must sacrifice his happiness for his brother's. The confrontation must take place today.

Downing the last of his brandy, Mycroft sighed in resignation. "I have a meeting scheduled with John in less than an hour. I will adjust the location and have him come here. Privacy and neutral territory will serve best when breaking the news to him. It would be careless to drop this on him in his home or in public."

Sherlock abruptly halted and faced his brother. A pained expression flitted across his face before quickly smoothing out into blank neutrality. He exhaled slowly. "Thank you,"

It had been years since those words had left Sherlock's lips sincerely. Not even after Sherlock had been forced to sobriety had Mycroft heard them.

The genuine sentiment did much to pacify Mycroft, giving him the strength to walk out of the room and prepare for the battle to come.


	10. Chapter 10

"You really didn't have to pick me up, Mycroft," John said as he settled himself inside the back of the black government car. "I could have taken a cab to your place. Would have saved you the time." He shut the door. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb into the flow of traffic.

After fastening his safety belt, he turned his head to look at Mycroft, silent in the seat beside him.

Mycroft sat rigidly in his seat. His habitual umbrella was propped upright between his legs and gripped tightly in his clenched fists. There was a far off look in his eyes as he stared at the handle, absently stroking it with his thumb.

But his face, John hadn't seen him look so serious, so _resigned_, since Sherlock's funeral.

Instantly, John was on edge, tensing in his seat. Anything that moved Mycroft Holmes to such a state was more than troubling.

"Mycroft?" John softly prompted, reaching out to touch the man's shoulder.

Mycroft started at the touch. He shook his head minutely, as though banishing whatever dark thoughts were plaguing him. A forced smile (John could tell the difference now, after seeing so many real ones) was pinned on his face as he turned his head to look at John.

"I do apologize, John. It's been a trying day, thus far. I'm afraid I was lost in contemplation."

Returning his hand to his lap, John relaxed, somewhat mollified. "Anything I can help with?" Not that John could really _help_ much if the man behind the British government was rattled by a problem, but he always did what he could.

The smile on Mycroft's face took on a rueful tilt. "I'm not sure yet, John. I'm hoping so. But it is a matter I would prefer to take up within the privacy of my home."

John cocked his head slightly in puzzlement. "So… you'll tell me what's wrong when we get there?"

John was naturally wary of the other man's agreement. Mycroft _never_ discussed work with him, insisting that John was safer kept out of state secrets. Though he hadn't specifically said that the issue was 'work related'...which more likely meant it was personal…

The part of John that loved creating doubt reared its ugly head. Maybe Mycroft wasn't as content with their arrangement as John had presumed…

He pushed the thought away as best he could. No sense in courting depression and ill will until Mycroft actually told him off, at any rate.

Mycroft fidgeted with his umbrella, staring off vacantly again. He appeared rather pensive. "Yes, certainly. I'm sorry about the change in our lunch plans. A rather pressing matter has arisen and I must ask for your utmost patience when…dealing with it."

John frowned. That didn't _sound_ like a prelude to a break-up. What the hell was going on?

The car slowed, turning off the main road and into a private drive lined with trees. After a few seconds, John glimpsed a beautiful if plain-looking house on a modest estate. The drive ended in a cul-de-sac, in which the car parked nearest to the house.

The two released their safety belts and got out of the car. After shutting their respective doors, the car quietly rolled away out of the cul-de-sac and down the road.

Mycroft turned to John after watching the car vanish around a bend in the drive. "I must confess something to you, John. I've been keeping information from you for several months- information regarding Sherlock's death. When you came to me three months ago, you were angry with me, but not for the proper reasons. It's past time that you should be aware of them."

John felt his heart skip faster. What hadn't Mycroft told him?

Mycroft pointed to the front door with his umbrella before walking towards it. John was frozen for a few moments, his mind trying to wrap around what Mycroft had just said, before he followed the man, stumbling in his haste.

Passing through the doorway, John couldn't find it in himself to appreciate the Spartan beauty of his new surroundings, stunned as he still was by Mycroft's admission. Quietly closing the door behind them, Mycroft glanced at the mixed emotions on John's face before turning to the hall nearby, imperiously gesturing John forward.

It was only when they were halfway down the passage that John finally found his tongue.

"So-So you _lied_ to me? You brought me here to tell me you've been _lying_ to me? About what? Why did you bring me _here _for this?"

Mycroft slowed to a stop, his eyes tightly shut as he brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was quiet for a few seconds, as though gathering his strength.

Patiently, John waited, trying to reign in the mixed ball of hurt, anger, and confusion inside him.

Lowering his hand, Mycroft opened his eyes and searched John's face and posture, reading John's emotions for himself better than if John had tried to explain them. Sadness filled Mycroft's eyes and John felt some of his anger slip away. Mycroft was openly distressed about the matter. Empathy made John want to draw the man into his arms, but Mycroft had yet to clarify why they were here-something John _needed_ to understand.

"I brought you here because I respect you enough to not discuss a subject of this delicacy with you in a public setting. You deserve privacy in this matter, when the press has allowed you so little; and because I have physical evidence to prove the truth to you, which I believe you may need."

John felt his heart rate spike. He inhaled deeply, releasing the air slowly through his nose in an effort to calm himself. "What's going on, Mycroft"

"It's Sherlock."

"What about him?" John asked behind clenched teeth, his temper flaring at Mycroft's vagueness.

Mycroft took a steadying breath. "He's alive, John."

John waited with bated breath for the other shoe to drop, for the punch line to fall, because this _had_ to be a joke. Mycroft couldn't be toying with him like this, with _this_. He of all people had understood what Sherlock had meant to him, what his _suicide_ had done to him. He wouldn't throw such nonsense in John's face-

The bottom of John's stomach dropped out as that thought hit him like a ton of bricks. Mycroft _wouldn't_ pull such a petty, vindictive joke on John. When the man _did_ joke, it was through subtle barbs and displays of wit. Brash awfulness was beneath him, not his style.

Which meant that Mycroft was telling him the truth.

Those three words danced in circles around John's heart, but he couldn't let them in because he had _been_ there. He had seen the blood, everywhere, on the pavement, on _Sherlock._ Those alluring blue eyes had been blank and lifeless as his pulse. He had watched the heart-stopping fall and no one, not even Sherlock, could survive a fall like that. _So _much blood…

John felt his breathing pick up, on the verge of hyperventilating because this couldn't be _real_.

"What?" John felt the word fall from his lips, but he could scarcely believe he had uttered it, the word sounding so weak and broken.

Mycroft bowed his head. "I'm sorry, John."

John shook his head, shaken to his core. He extended his hand out towards Mycroft-whether silently asking for support or to keep the man back, John wasn't sure. "I don't, I don't understand. You're _sorry_? You just-do you know what you just _said_? That _Sherlock_ is _alive_? What do you…?" John trailed off, overcome by emotion.

Nodding to himself, Mycroft walked the few meters to his study and held the door open for John.

John moved forward on shaky legs; a faint tremor ran through his right leg with every step. He froze just inside the door when his eyes fell upon the dark figure standing in the middle of the room.

Tall, pale, and immaculate as always, Sherlock Holmes stood ramrod straight as John stared at him in disbelief. His hair was shorn a little closer to his scalp and he was missing his trademark overcoat, but there was no mistaking those sharp-cut cheekbones and haunting eyes-eyes that held a wistful hope even as that stubborn jaw was set with determined willfulness.

Hardly breathing, John struggled to comprehend the sight before him. He desperately wanted to believe Mycroft, to believe the evidence before his own eyes, but all John could think of was blood on the pavement beside St. Bart's and of how perfectly normal the skull of the dead man in front of him looked.

"John."

Sherlock's familiar baritone uttering his name brought John's reality crashing in, wrenching a broken sob from his throat. He had thought he'd never hear that voice again. Panic and grief raged within him, overcoming the first stirrings of elation as the truth sank in gradually.

"_John_."

Sherlock took a step toward John and instinctively John stepped back, away from Sherlock.

Having yet to take his eyes off the man, John saw the pain that flashed across Sherlock's face at his retreat, swiftly hidden behind a mask of impassiveness. Part of John's heart twisted in agony for causing that pain. He knew very well the defenses Sherlock used to protect himself from society, but never had he needed to protect himself from John.

As strong as the urge to comfort and reconnect with his best friend was, John needed to understand how Sherlock came to be standing alive and well in Mycroft's house instead of decaying in the ground. He turned to Mycroft, pleading for an explanation without saying a word.

Mycroft's face was nearly as blank as his brothers, the both of them hiding their emotions from sight.

Anger rose within John. He was getting tired of secrets.

Mycroft cleared his throat before taking charge.

"Sherlock came to me for help after he pulled off his 'suicide'. Moriarty's organization had people in key positions to threaten the lives of Sherlock's closest allies. With no guarantee that they would disband upon Sherlock's 'demise', we operated under the assumption that these people- these _assassins_-would continue to endanger Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and yourself.

With Moriarty dead, there was no one to rescind his orders. Letting these operatives remain free wasn't a risk Sherlock was willing to take. The simplest and most expedient way of eliminating the threat was by maintaining the illusion of Sherlock's suicide from St. Bart's rooftop.

Unfortunately, this plan of action meant an _extremely_ limited number of people could be privy to the truth. We determined it was safer to keep you in the dark until such time all of the key players were tracked down and detained. The last known operative was arrested this morning. Barring a few legal trivialities, Sherlock can return to his life with a substantially smaller target upon his person."

John glanced back and forth between the two men, absorbing this information.

Sherlock made no attempts to approach John again and was silent as the grave through his brother's rehashing, his gaze fixed on John as the doctor listened to the overview.

John licked his lips, clenching and unclenching his fists. The initial shock was wearing off and anger was slowly taking its place. Seven months of lies and heartbreak. John wasn't sure how to process it all. "So you're telling me Moriarty is dead? You didn't think to, I don't know, _mention it to me?_ When did _that_ happen?"

"Just before I called you, John." John jerked his head back to Sherlock. "I told you it was a magic trick."

_"AND THEN YOU JUMPED OFF A BUILDING!"_ John shouted, his temper getting the better of him before he could restrain himself.

Mycroft sighed. "I wanted to tell you, John. I wanted to give you that little piece of mind, but it was easier to cover up Moriarty's real suicide, promote Sherlock's faked one, and explain later than it was to leave the press with a murder-suicide. The resulting media disaster would have made wrapping this up twice as difficult."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to have one hell of a headache by the end of this honesty session. "And the body?" John asked, though he was only vaguely interested. It was just a _tiny_ detail compared to the iceberg-sized ones floating around him at the moment.

"Cold storage, until we deem it necessary to dispose of it. It may come in handy in the near future, in restoring Sherlock's freedom. We haven't worked all the details out yet. Everything came to a head today. Sherlock only just arrived in London a few hours ago. We hadn't expected our little crusade to be concluded so soon, but by chance Sherlock cornered Moran early this morning. He thought there was no need to wait any longer for your 'debriefing'."

John frowned at Mycroft in confusion. "Moran…?"

"An assassin," Sherlock explained. "One of three Moriarty assigned to kill those closest to me. Moran was one of his chief minions and was the sniper delegated to you."

Taking a calming breath against his rising emotions, John addressed Sherlock properly for the first time in months. "So you went to ground to flush out Moriarty's people. You _deliberately_ let me think you were dead while you went about catching them. You couldn't have said _one word_ to me?" He looked back and forth between the brothers, making sure Mycroft knew he was being included in his inquiry. "You couldn't have spared me at least _some_ of the pain I went through?"

He rested his gaze on Mycroft. "You saw what I was going through and you never said a _word_. Was I not _trustworthy_ enough?"

The angrier John got, the more resigned Mycroft seemed to become. "It was never an issue of trust. It was about your safety and the safety of the others. Regretfully, it seemed kinder to give you the chance to work past your grief. Should something have happened to Sherlock to end his quest, would you have wanted to grieve _twice_ for him? Knowing that he died attempting to keep you safe from Moriarty's remnants?"

The words were like knives in John's heart and he fought the pain of every one of them.

"I would have _preferred_," John choked out, "to have known the truth. I would have _preferred_ to have not thought- on a near daily basis- that I had _failed_ him, failed my best friend and partner. I would have _preferred_ to have not endured the pain of examining _every single moment_ of those last few days, wondering what would have happened if I had done something, _anything_, differently had I _been there for him!"_

"It was for your protection, John," said Mycroft, sadly.

"_My_ protection," John trailed off incredulously, shaking his head.

He brought a hand up to briefly cover his mouth while he absently looked around the room. The hand dropped as he turned back to face Mycroft with tears of frustration gathered in his eyes.

"_My_ protection, even though it seems to have been more for _your_ protection, keeping your loose ends where you can see them. You brought me here to let me know that all the pain, anger, and doubt I've felt over the past _seven months_ was in vain, utterly useless. Collateral damage accepted for the big picture. You, of all people, knew what I was going through, what I _could have done, _and you did _nothing_. Said _nothing_. I just…I can't…" John's voice broke on a sob.

Concern drawing his features, Mycroft took a step toward John, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"_Brolly!"_ John shouted, retreating from the outstretched hand.

Mycroft froze, understanding in his eyes as he lowered his arm and stepped back, nodding in acquiescence.

He made no move to stop John as he slowly backed out of the room. Sherlock wasn't so complacent.

_"John,"_ Sherlock pleaded, confusion and hurt in his eyes.

The tears that had been welling fell freely down John's cheeks as he shook his head. His breathing hitched in his chest with the need to _get out, to get away. _

"I'm sorry, I need to….I can't…" He gestured vaguely to the room before him, to the ones causing his throat to swell and choke off his words. Without another word, John turned on his heel and strode swiftly as he could down the hall, Mycroft's quiet acceptance and Sherlock's devastated face haunting his thoughts.


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft P.O.V

Neither brother spoke as they listened to John's footsteps fade away. The slam of the front door echoed dully through the house.

Several minutes passed as they stood stock still, both deep in thought, before Sherlock broke the silence.

"Brolly."

Mycroft looked up from where he had been staring at the carpet, frowning in confusion at his little brother.

"Sorry?"

Sherlock fixed him with a calculating stare. "He said 'brolly', just before he left. The word had no bearing on the conversation, yet it seemed to mean something to you. Not to mention the fact that he was speaking _directly to_ _you_ when he said it. What did he mean?"

Mycroft warily eyed his brother as he carefully chose his words. Trust Sherlock to skip over the disastrous confrontation and turn his attention to John's incriminating outburst.

He wasn't surprised. Truth be told, he had expected Sherlock to latch onto evidence of he and John's relationship. But if Mycroft was honest with himself, he had _hoped_ for more time to sort things out with John before intimating details of their relationship to his brother.

As things were, Mycroft didn't know if John even _wanted _to continue relations with him after discovering his titanic omission. He wouldn't blame John if the man broke off contact with him altogether.

Mycroft was hyper aware of his responsibility for John's pain. When he had failed to do all he could to protect Sherlock from Moriarty, he had personally opened the door for the psychopath to inflict as much damage as he could. John was right; he _had_ been collateral damage, in a sense.

Thankfully, Sherlock's back-up plan had kept everyone he loved out of the grave. If not for his 'suicide', Sebastian Moran might have fulfilled his master's mission, taking away the most important person in Sherlock's life.

_And his own_, Mycroft thought.

Had John been assassinated, Mycroft would never have gotten any closer to the doctor beyond gathered facts and his own observations. Strings of numbers and notes in databases were all that John Watson would have been to Mycroft — and such a sorry thing that would have been.

Becoming involved with John had been an unexpected but positive result of the whole debacle. Mycroft cared for his brother and was pleased with to have worked with him for the good of their country, but it was a nice change to have someone to look after who cared for him in return.

Over the past three months, John had begun to fill a void inside of Mycroft. Unfortunately, revealing the truth to John may have irreparably broken the doctor's trust. Mycroft may have lost the closest thing to a companion he had ever had.

His own advice to Sherlock from last year rang bitterly in his memory: _All lives end, all hearts are broken._

Caring might not be an advantage, but it was one of the few weaknesses that Mycroft had indulged in in quite some time. After having to be strong for so long, it had felt good to have someone help him release stress.

A growl of irritation erupted from Sherlock.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he stalked forward until he was mere inches from Mycroft. "What does it _mean_?"

_I'm sorry, John,_ Mycroft thought fervently. He sighed softly.

"He said 'brolly' in order to express his dissatisfaction with the situation. It acts as an immediate 'cease and desist' code. Some time ago, John chose the word for immediate use should he feel distressed in my presence."

Mycroft could practically see his brother turn over the words in his mind.

Nearly a minute passed before astonished understanding lit up Sherlock's face. "A _safe word_. _'Brolly'_ is his _safe word_, chosen for interactions with _you_." He scowled darkly at Mycroft, nearly vibrating with righteous indignation. "You led me to believe all your information was gathered by your underlings, but you've been keeping a 'closer' watch on his developments, haven't you? Why would John need a safe word?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Why might two consenting adults require such a thing?" he mocked, rhetorically. "John and I have a personal arrangement that contains a sexual component. I won't regale you with the details for the simple fact that they are none of your concern."

"_John_ is my concern," Sherlock said through clenched teeth, glaring.

"_John_ is a consenting adult, Sherlock. His decisions are his own," Mycroft stated, cool in the face of his brother's ire.

"His consent is suspect if he was not in his right mind. You said yourself that he was grieving. In his fragile state, he would have accepted attention from _anyone_," Sherlock spat.

"So quick to champion his weakness when mere hours ago you were defending his strength. I'm curious, Sherlock, is it because it was _me_ that he found solace in or that he found happiness at all after your 'death'?"

Mycroft would not back down from his brother's barbs when he had to contend with so many from his _own_ conscience.

Sherlock reared back, as though physically repelled by the question. His jaw jutted out stubbornly. "This isn't about _me_, Mycroft."

"On the contrary, this is _all_ about you, isn't it? You're acting like a child, upset that you have to _share_. Grow up, Sherlock. People _can_ and _do_ form bonds with many people throughout their lifetime. John is no different. Give him the respect he deserves to make his decisions."

"He was _hurting_. You took advantage of him!"

"_He_ came to _me_."

An odd, choking sound left Sherlock's throat as his eyes went wide with shock.

Hands thrust into his trouser pockets, Mycroft surveyed his brother with bored indifference as he rocked back onto his heels.

"I empathize with you. When he came to me, I had my doubts about his reasoning as well. But we have an agreement based on open honesty and trust. And he has had plenty of time to change his mind. It is not your place to pass judgment on this matter. All I ask is that you not take your resentment out on John just because you either _can't_ or _won't_ support him for finding happiness. If you _care _for him, if you are his _friend_, then give him his space. Now that he is aware of how things stand, he'll need time to readjust. When he's ready, _he'll_ seek out _you._ Don't press him, Sherlock, not in this."

And with that, Mycroft turned and swept out of the room. He intended to check on John from afar.

Hopefully, his brother would have patience this time.

John P.O.V.

John lay prostrate in his bed atop the covers, completely clothed in the darkened room. His arm was thrown across his eyes to shut out the meager light of the street lamps coming in through the window.

Pain throbbed in his head. An empty tumbler sat haphazardly on the edge of the nightstand.

It had been three days since Mycroft had revealed the truth to him.

Three days during which John had refused to communicate with or even be physically near another human being. He had even ignored his sister's calls, going only so far as to listen to the worried voice messages she had left behind. There had been nothing from either Mycroft or Sherlock.

John wasn't sure if he was pissed that they hadn't attempted to contact him or if he was relieved to have space to think without their distraction. Unsurprisingly, his opinion on the matter had fluctuated frequently, depending mostly on the amount of alcohol clashing with the present mood.

A good portion of his conscious hours had been spent staring into his whiskey, wondering if the meeting at Mycroft's had really happened or if he had finally cracked.

John didn't understand it—Sherlock being alive had been something he had dreamt of for months, yet he was having difficulty in finding happiness in the realization of his dream.

Perhaps because it had all been a lie.

No matter how much safer he had been not knowing the truth, it still rankled at him that he had been brushed aside from the action. He felt like a toy, abandoned for something more interesting, more 'important', until he was remembered by his owner once more.

It was infuriating, really.

John had spent _years_ as an army doctor, saving countless lives out in some of the most volatile and inhospitable war zones before a bullet had lodged in his shoulder. Not to mention the dangerous situations he had followed Sherlock through (which had made him appreciate his army training).

Captain John Watson, M.D. could take care of himself, no coddling required.

But that was only part of what really irked him.

John had spent _a year and a half_ with Sherlock before the man had jumped off St. Bart's roof. He knew that 'courtesy' wasn't really in Sherlock's vocabulary, along with words like 'appreciation', 'tact', and 'kindness'. He was _used_ to being left out of Sherlock's loop— only the loop had never before been this _big_.

The _real_ problem, the thing that had left a sour taste in his mouth, was that all his grieving, heartache, and depression had been for naught. Every tear shed in Sherlock's name had been worthless.

John had lived in a nightmare for seven months and couldn't simply 'shake off' the memory because it had all felt _real_. It _had_ been real, for John at least.

John had grieved for Sherlock. He had started to accept a life without Sherlock in it, had started to let him _go_, with Mycroft's help.

_Mycroft._

John had mixed feelings about the elder Holmes brother.

Though he could understand why _Sherlock_ had lied to him, it was more difficult to put his finger on _Mycroft's_ reasoning.

Sherlock might prefer to believe he, the world's only consulting detective, operated without emotion, but John knew better. You don't sacrifice your livelihood and put yourself in danger for someone you don't care about; even if the reasoning was selfish, like wanting to hunt down the threats to his friends without being tripped up by lesser mortals than him, John could still appreciate the rarely demonstrated protective instinct of his friend.

But _Mycroft_ was harder to explain.

John knew Mycroft understood how essential he had become in Sherlock's life. He could see John's strengths and how they had made up for Sherlock's weaknesses.

It was hard to believe that he had allowed his brother to leave John in the dark and go out on such a dangerous mission without backup in a time Sherlock had needed help the most. After Mycroft essentially bungled things by letting Moriarty free with ammunition against his brother, John was amazed that he had sent Sherlock out, virtually alone and emotionally crippled. He had courted the possibility of bringing about his little brother's destruction (again). Sherlock needed a companion, an assistant to protect him from himself and Mycroft had helped Sherlock willingly deprive himself of such a person.

Hadn't Mycroft learned anything from dealing with Moriarty?

It baffled John that the smartest men he knew had deliberately made such stupid decisions when they were trying to protect someone important to them. It was as though the excess emotions had addled their exceptional brains.

Whatever reason Mycroft _initially_ had in keeping John out of the fray, John was sure it had changed a few months ago. Mycroft's actions may have been as selfish as his brother's: doing what he could to protect what was his— even if it meant hurting them.

Despite feeling slightly betrayed by his lover for being allowed to suffer for so long, John couldn't find it in him to hate the man or the arrangement they had.

John's pain had been real, but Mycroft had eased him through it and made him happy. The same, John felt, could be said in reverse. John's powers of observation weren't anything like Sherlock's, but he could tell their relationship had done Mycroft some good as well. He had smiled more and even bantered with John during their lunch dates.

And the passion…

A smug smile slid onto John's face. It would take one _hell_ of an actor to mimic the need John had seen in Mycroft's eyes, the helpless moans that John had wrought from his lips…

No, their relationship had been real and might've become part of why Mycroft had kept his brother's secret, and that meant it had been real for Mycroft as well.

If Mycroft felt the same way, then how could John possibly fault him for giving him happiness in his darkest hour?

John sighed softly to himself as he rolled to his side to grab his mobile.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble and filth that had accumulated during his pity party over the past few days. Hung-over and tempered by his musings, John grimly considered the phone in his hand.

He couldn't linger in his depression any longer. When he had been shot, John had wallowed in self-pity for nearly a week before steeling his spine to work through his emotional trauma— the physical recoup would come later. Unlike before, there wasn't an injury holding him back from recovery, only himself and his excuses. And that was unacceptable.

John rolled onto his back again as he pulled up a number long ground into his memory.

He typed out and sent a text before he lost his nerve.

**I understand why you did what you did. I'm happy you're alright. - JW**

He laid the phone on his chest. He hadn't texted Sherlock since before his 'suicide', but John was sure the number hadn't changed. Why should it? Everyone thought he was dead. John knew Mycroft would have reunited Sherlock with his mobile after any police investigations had concluded (not that there had been much of one, what with John as their witness/suicide note).

Fifteen seconds went by, John counting every one of them with mounting apprehension, before his text alert sounded in the quiet room.

Startled, he eagerly opened the message.

**I wanted to tell you. - SH**

Emotion tightened John's throat as he typed back.

**I know. - JW**

And it was true, he _did_ know. It must have _killed_ Sherlock to not be able to explain every detail_,_ to not be able to dazzle John with his brilliance and receive the praise John would give him for being so clever. It's no fun being a show-off when you can't show-off.

There was more to it than that, he knew, but John wasn't completely free from his 'pity stage'; he could snark if he wanted to, given the state of things.

**How are things on the freedom front? - JW **

_Settle on a neutral topic_, John thought, anything to escape the tension growing in his _own room_.

John lay patiently waiting for Sherlock's reply. A siren wailed faintly in the distance and he wondered absently if anyone had died. Amazing really, how Sherlock Holmes had brought out the morbid in him.

A ping sounded. John raised the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the room.

**Slower than expected. Apparently, coming back to life is more difficult on paper than in reality. - SH **

_Most people _stay_ dead when they die_, John thought, sorrow threatening to overtake him. John mentally shook himself. No, he wouldn't bend to this misery anymore. Sherlock was alive and back and all this nonsense was over now. John almost believed it.

He sighed into the darkness.

**Annoying Mycroft in the meantime then? - JW**

Hopefully, the subtle inquiry after his brother would get past Sherlock. He didn't know what Sherlock knew about his relationship with Mycroft, _if_ he knew anything at all. The consulting detective had a knack for spotting affairs in his line of work, but would his powers of observation avail him if one of the subjects was _Mycroft?_

Perhaps he wouldn't _need_ Mycroft in order to figure it out, John mentally cringed.

John had always been something of an open book to the younger Holmes brother, a fact proven within the first _fifteen seconds_ of meeting the man.

Probably knew every damn thing already from the fiasco at Mycroft's, he despaired. Without contacting Mycroft directly, John had no choice but to try to lure information out of his brother. He wasn't ready to speak with Mycroft yet, but he couldn't ignore Sherlock anymore, not when he'd been gone for so long.

Not when John had missed him so much.

His phone sounded again.

**I suppose I would be if I were still staying with him. I am in 221B again. - SH**

Fear coursed through John as he stared at the message.

_Mrs. Hudson…_

Another message popped onto the screen as he lay frozen in horror as scenarios flew through his mind.

**Before you do yourself in with worry, she is fine. Mycroft went to Baker Street personally and discussed everything with her as gently as he could HOURS before I walked through the door. Took it better than you did, actually. - SH**

John felt his heart rate drop down to a less frantic tempo. _Thank goodness_, he thought, ignoring Sherlock's tactless reference to his own reaction.

Mrs. Hudson had put up with a lot when he and Sherlock had been her tenants, but finding out someone you thought was dead was actually _alive_, well…

At her age, a shock of that magnitude could have been fatal.

Another ping.

**She's fine, John. A bit shaken, but pleased nonetheless. I am to relay a message from her. She says that 'you are welcome to your old room, since it is available again'. I myself would not mind your presence in 221B again, if you were agreeable to the idea. -SH**

Uncertainty settled over John as he considered the words. Going back to Baker Street and solving crimes with Sherlock once more… it was like something out of a fairy tale, his wishes coming true…

It would be as though the last seven months never happened.

A chill lanced through John's heart as he imagined never getting to know Mycroft, never looking past the icy exterior to the passionate soul within 'the Man Behind the British Government'. John would never have approached him had Sherlock not pulled off his 'magic trick'. He wouldn't have given it a moment's consideration, not with Sherlock in the picture.

John's crush on Sherlock had not dissipated when he had fallen off the roof; it had festered and clawed at his soul, the unfulfilled longing at times threatening to drive him to the brink.

Mycroft had helped him find his way back through the spiraling darkness, but he could still feel it there sometimes, at the fringes of his subconscious, the mass of confusing emotions left behind by Sherlock's sudden departure.

All the what if's and things that could have been still lingered in the back of John's mind, but had been pushed further and further back by the growing affection and desire for someone else— for Mycroft. Without Mycroft in his life, John's would have ended months ago, consumed by the pain Sherlock's absence had brought upon him.

John might hate the agony and rage Sherlock's fall had put him through, but it had been worth it to find Mycroft waiting for him at the end of it all. Even if Sherlock's suicide had been real, John had been learning how to live again, with Mycroft as his rock.

He had a dilemma.

As much as he yearned for his old life, if he jumped at the chance to resume life in Baker Street like the past seven months hadn't happened, something would break inside of John.

He needed to remember the pain if he wanted to appreciate what had brought him to Mycroft; it was an acknowledgement of what had brought him to Mycroft. If he went back now, so soon after coming to terms with the truth, John felt that it would cheapen what he and Mycroft had— and that was an injustice Mycroft didn't deserve.

As much as John loved Sherlock— yes, love, because you don't go through that much despair and anger only to _forgive_ that person of you don't _love_ them— he needed to be on his own for a bit longer.

In time, he would return to Baker Street (after all, Sherlock would be _lost_ without his faithful blogger), but for now, John needed to understand where he was emotionally with the Holmes brothers, without any undue influence.

He refused to climb the stairs of 221B a more broken and confused man than he was two years ago when he had first arrived there. He wanted to heal, _needed_ to heal, and Mycroft Holmes might be the only one who could help him.

Setting his jaw, John sent a text before rolling off the bed.

**I appreciate the offer, but I need more time before I try to pick up where I left off. I need to figure out where I stand. This isn't a 'no', it's a 'not yet'. I just need more time. - JW**

Grabbing the empty glass from the nightstand, John made his way out of the room, tossing his phone onto the bed as he passed. For the first time in three days, he was going to make himself presentable.

He was in the shower when Sherlock's replay came.

**I understand. And for what it's worth, you have my blessing. - SH**


	12. Chapter 12

Light from the fireplace flickered chaotically through the tumbler in Mycroft's hand. He swilled the amber liquid in the glass absently as he stared into the fire.

It had been three days since the disaster in his study and there had been no word from John. Camera feed showed that John had not left his flat since his return from their meeting and no activity on his mobile phone had been reported.

No one had seen or heard from the doctor and it troubled Mycroft to no end.

He wanted to give John space, to give him time to comprehend the reality of Sherlock's survival, but the utter _silence_ worried Mycroft. As much as Mycroft believed in John's resilience, he also knew that John's primary weakness had always been Sherlock Holmes. His brother's faux suicide had created a spider web of fine cracks in John's very being; he hoped that bringing him back from the 'dead' hadn't shattered him completely.

Frustrated as he was, Mycroft's mind had gone into overdrive, exacerbating his fears by running through various scenarios concerning John, each more ghastly than the last. Quintessentially, it was his own Schrödinger's cat problem: Mycroft had no concrete way of knowing John's mental/physical state without calling upon him personally. As per the theory, John could be furious, catatonic with depression, dead and decaying alone in his flat̶—he was everything and nothing at the same time. It was vexing, not knowing, but he had already made the decision to wait for John. It created a vicious circle, but he wouldn't risk upsetting John any more than he already had by stoking the fire he started.

Idly, Mycroft took a swallow from his glass, watching a log crackle in a burst of flame. He was like that log, consumed by his anxiety, by his concern for John.

_Consumed by his emotion, exactly what he reprimanded Sherlock for_, he thought bitterly. The irony wasn't lost on him.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips.

He hadn't planned for this to happen. He couldn't have predicted he would become so emotionally entangled in John, with _his_ wellbeing seemingly tied to _John's_. In months past, it had been a pleasant feeling, but with everything turned on its ear, it was debilitating.

Sad to say, the only thing going smoothly was Sherlock's transition from legally dead to legally alive.

Mycroft's people had spent nearly two days interrogating and 'physically persuading' Sebastian Moran, during which the assassin had refused to cooperate. In fact, Mycroft had perceived that Moran believed his master to be alive and in their custody.

Well…

Mycroft had taken the liberty of proving him _half_ wrong…

After coming face to face with James Moriarty's chilled corpse, Moran had been rather accommodating. With proof of Moriarty's death, the fight went out of him, as though every reason for continued defiance had slipped away at the sight of his lifeless master. The sudden change in Moran's behavior made Mycroft appreciate the power Moriarty held over his pawns even in death.

_The webs he must have woven in Moran's mind_, Mycroft wondered, grudgingly impressed.

With the previous night's progress, the best and brightest of Her Majesty's legal staff had begun compiling a case to posthumously convict Moriarty for orchestrating the assassinations Moran had committed, the children's kidnappings, and the plotted murder of Sherlock's allies. Unfortunately, the law prohibited double jeopardy, leaving Moriarty untouchable for the break-ins, the bombings, and the fatalities from his 'game' with Sherlock.

But now that Sherlock's mission was complete, the detective couldn't care less about the tedious and mundane task of explaining himself to a world that didn't understand him and thought him a fraudulent criminal. Mycroft was left the happy responsibility of smoothing over the details, which he in turn delegated to his legal team.

The lawyers working to exonerate Sherlock of the kidnapping charges were also collaborating with Mycroft's Intelligence team to create a viable alibi for the media (and most likely a jury) as to how a dead man was very much alive, as well as innocent. The press would _hound_ Sherlock if his alibi wasn't available or believable—though the publicity would go a ways helping Sherlock swing back into business.

Earlier this morning, his legal team had assured Mycroft results to review within a few days. There was nothing to do but wait.

Sherlock had not been pleased.

When John shut everyone out three days ago, Sherlock had become a wreck, snapping viciously at anyone unfortunate enough to be in his vicinity— namely Mycroft. Mycroft had put up with the snarky, vindictive, brat of a man-child for two days before his little brother's tantrum reached a crescendo with the morning's news, after which he deemed that enough was enough.

Mycroft had called upon Mrs. Hudson just before noon and they had shared most of a pot of tea before he slowly and carefully explained Sherlock's continued existence. The poor thing had been shaken of course (dropped her teacup from the shock), but on the whole, he felt she had taken the news in stride (he supposed that Sherlock's apparent resurrection was less upsetting than, say, discovering your husband was a murderer).

Regardless, Mycroft left the remaining tea for Mrs. Hudson just in case.

After that, not much persuading was really needed to get Sherlock re-tenanted in 221B.

Mrs. Hudson had missed him, despite how difficult Sherlock had oft been.

Mycroft had held off Sherlock for two hours after their tea, giving time for things to sink in, before the detective bounded in, eager to move back in and resume something resembling normality. Seeing Sherlock had brought the poor woman to tears and Mycroft was extremely relieved when his brother didn't fuss over the hug he was unceremoniously pulled into—he even held her back, consoling her in his dry, brash way.

However, when Mrs. Hudson inquired after John, Sherlock had scowled and told her the doctor was 'aware of the situation', before turning to Mycroft to demand the return of his belongings.

Ever the evader, his little brother.

Until Sherlock's alibi and Moriarty's case was at least tentatively assembled, there had been no reason to deny Sherlock slack in his chain (besides, Mycroft was by no means a masochist). Arrangements were made and, within the hour, Sherlock's possessions were being toted back up the steps of 221B, precariously stacked in cardboard boxes.

Finally leaving his hyperactive brother to his own devices had given Mycroft more pleasure than he'd thought possible.

At least until he had reached the solitude of his home, where there was nothing to distract Mycroft from acutely feeling John's absence. Sherlock was in Baker Street, busying himself as best he could without a case or John to amuse him. Here, Mycroft was alone, bereft of any concrete method of deflecting thoughts of John— and so he found himself sitting in front of the fire in his night clothes with a near empty glass of brandy in his hand.

It wasn't often that Mycroft drank, but the stress from restraining the urge to check on John was becoming intolerable. Initially, he had hoped the brandy would numb him, push his anxiety far enough away so he could breathe for a few minutes without aching for John. Instead, he had been lulled into a lethargic state where he could only contemplate the foremost object on his mind: John Watson.

_Maddening_, Mycroft thought as he raised the glass to his lips.

A delicate chime sounded through the house— the doorbell.

Mycroft froze before he could take the last swallow. His eyes flew to an antique clock hanging on one of the adjacent walls. It was well past midnight, not at all the hour for proper visitors. Suspicion hardened his features as he stood and placed the tumbler on the mantelpiece. The crackling fire became menacing in the quiet that followed.

Swiftly, Mycroft made his way to the front entrance. Adrenaline drove back the muddling edge of the alcohol as he passed through the halls and into the antechamber. As he approached the door, hope rose unbidden within him. Mycroft aligned his eye with the peep hole. His heart pounded hard in his chest when he saw the man who had been on his mind for three days.

Mycroft rested his head against the door as hope was crushed by doubt.

_What if John was here to say goodbye?_

He closed his eyes, struggling to master the bitter disappointment chilling his blood.

Straightening upright after a few deep breaths, Mycroft gripped the doorknob. Whatever John wanted, Mycroft was willing to give— even if he wanted his freedom.

Resigned for the worst, he opened the door.

John, who had been partially turned towards the drive, pivoted to face Mycroft. Oddly, John seemed to relax at the sight of him; Mycroft, however, was on pins and needles, though he was careful not to let it show (old habits die hard).

Whether it was the light from the lamp above the door or the dark sweater John was wearing, Mycroft thought he looked a bit peaky. He certainly seemed nervous: he had licked his lips no less than three times since Mycroft had opened the door. The two men stared at each other in silence for a few moments before John cleared his throat.

"Um, hello. I, uh, I hope I didn't wake you?" He fidgeted with his jacket sleeve, a pinched look upon his face.

"No, not at all." Mycroft forced himself to release his hold on the doorknob. Apparently, the doctor's unexpected appearance on his doorstep was enough to make Mycroft forget himself. It was rather embarrassing; he hadn't felt this thrown in _years._ "Would you care to come inside?" Mycroft asked, hoping to make up for his hesitation.

John's face lit up with relief. "Yes, please."

Mycroft stepped aside to allow John entrance before closing the door behind them. He led the doctor back to the warmth of the fireside.

_No reason not to comfortable_, he thought prodding a half- burned log to the center of the embers with an ornate poker.

He set the poker back in its holder and turned to John, who had settled himself in one of the sturdy armchairs near the fire. Mycroft eased himself into its twin beside John's, crossing his legs and folding his hands together, giving full attention to his guest.

John licked his lips nervously and glanced down at his lap. He opened and closed his mouth several times, producing only strangled unintelligible sounds when he tried to speak, before falling silent, his brow furrowed in frustration as he stared off into the fire.

Mycroft took pity on the man, clearing his throat to gain John's attention.

"I could tell you precisely how often I considered explaining the truth to you these past seven months, if I thought such platitudes would help. What you went through was inexcusable, but I'm afraid we made the best of a bad situation. It wasn't ideal, putting you through this, but Sherlock was adamant that you were to be kept as safe as possible. I had no valid reason to further complicate matters, which bringing you into the loop would have done, and so I acquiesced to his wishes. I'll admit it was the 'easy' approach to the situation, though it was by no means fair to you. Considering the end results though, I'd say our side fared better than expected, for all the damage done."

Mycroft watched as John absently ran his thumb across his lips, appearing deep in thought. John's gaze was far off, looking at nothing, when he finally found his tongue.

"I suppose the end justified the means, then."

Mycroft frowned at the doctor. "No. There were other ways we could have handled the problem— granted, ones more convoluted and dangerous for the parties involved— that would have spared you much grief, but we chose the most convenient route. As I told you before, you were right to be angry with me. I held the power to ease your pain but did nothing."

John jerked his head back towards Mycroft at that, his expression a mix of anger and hurt. "Nothing? You think providing companionship and peace of mind was _nothing?_ Or is that what all this was? That our 'arrangement' meant _nothing_, simply a distraction or a way to keep a closer watch on me?"

"_No_," Mycroft said, his body tight with restrained emotion. "Do you honestly believe I would use such base methods of control if all I wanted was increased surveillance on you? I have subordinates for that, John, trained to use any means, up to and including seduction, and are available at my disposal to spare me the trouble of getting personally involved in 'indiscretions'."

Light thrown from the fire illuminated Mycroft's face, giving his features an intensity that bellied his indignation. "I don't mix work with pleasure because I neither _need_ nor _want_ to do so. When I take a lover, it is by my_ own_ choosing, not out of convenience or political obligation."

Mycroft looked away from John's stunned face to the fire. By now, the logs were not much more than embers with flickers of flame. "It has been years," Mycroft said softly, "since I've taken a lover. I'll admit, before you approached me, I had not considered engaging you in such a fashion, but I don't regret what developed in the slightest."

He turned to fix John with an earnest stare. "The only ulterior motive I had in entering into a relationship with you was to help you, to lessen the agony I could see you were in, to allow you to take strength in someone else. If pleasure was found along the way, so much the better; I'd like to think it was mutual."

John's mouth twisted in a wry grin as he ruffled his hair with a hand. "Yes, I um, I agree…definitely mutual…" He trailed off, the slight squirm of his hips a telling sign of where his thoughts had wandered.

Mycroft smirked at the obvious reminiscence.

The glazed look left John's eyes as somberness fell over him. "I think the end justified the means."

He held up a hand when Mycroft opened his mouth to protest.

"Everyone survived, yes? All of the 'target's survived, the assassins tracked down, and Moriarty's organization essentially dismantled, yes?"

He waited for Mycroft to nod his assent of John's summarization before continuing.

"You're right, we fared exceedingly well considering that psychopath wanted Sherlock and his support network crushed, but ended up on a slab for his troubles instead." John chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I think the easy way, continuing the suicide charade, was the best in this case. The assassins backed off, right? Scattered to the winds when they thought Sherlock had done himself in. And if Sherlock hadn't jumped?— We might all be dead. If you had brought me in from the start?—The assassins could have found out the truth if they were watching me, could have picked off me or any of the others to send Sherlock a message.

Sure, we could all have gone underground, deep into witness protection, but that more than anything would have tipped them off and made catching them infinitely more difficult with them on their guard. With Sherlock 'dead' and all of us grieving, they relaxed. They backed off and made enough mistakes to lead you to them when they thought they were safe. I don't think that would have happened if we weren't all kept in the dark. It could have been harder, if not impossible, to bring the last of Moriarty's web down had Sherlock's 'trick' not been as secret as it was. Any of us could have died… Mrs. Hudson…Lestrade…"

John shook his head.

"If they had been murdered…" he trailed off, watching the glow of the dying fire. "I'm okay with it. I can accept and deal with the lies and the shit they put me through because, in the end, we all survived. I think that's worth the pain."

John smiled sheepishly at Mycroft and the cold tendrils of resignation began withdrawing from around Mycroft's heart. With John's acceptance of his and Sherlock's methods, hope was gradually welling up, as it hadn't in nearly four days— and then he remembered his brother.

After their confrontation a few days ago, the subject of John and Mycroft's relationship had not come up since, as though it might go away if Sherlock ignored it long enough. The tension it had created between the Holmes brothers had been nearly tangible and had sparked off Sherlock's temper more than once. Mycroft had been so anxious to get Sherlock back into his old flat that he hadn't paused to consider what _else_ might go back to 'normal' with his return.

He swallowed roughly, not wanting to examine too closely as to why his mouth was suddenly so dry.

"Sherlock has returned to 221B," Mycroft said haltingly, unsure if it was wise to continue bombarding the doctor with surprises.

"Hmm?"

John startled, having mentally wandered off again. He blinked at Mycroft in confusion for a moment before waving off the statement unconcernedly. "Oh yes, that. Yes, Sherlock mentioned that earlier. No doubt he'll be pleased to get back to more interesting distractions than man-hunting," he said, smiling fondly at the thought.

Retrospectively, it should have been obvious why John had failed thus far to inquire after his brother: he had already been in contact with Sherlock.

A flash of jealousy seared through him before logic retook control.

It was infuriatingly predictable that his brother had kept word from John to himself to spite Mycroft, but John's presence quelled any further surges of irritation. After all, John had said that Sherlock had _mentioned_ moving back to Baker Street, meaning that John's communication with his brother had not been face to face (more than likely via text, knowing Sherlock). His brother may have been in contact with John first, but it was with _Mycroft_ that John had taken the trouble to personally visit.

Mycroft couldn't help but feel a bit smug at the knowledge.

"I take it he has propositioned you for flat-sharing again?"

Mycroft found prying information out of his lover distasteful, but presently John wasn't near as forthcoming with details as he would prefer.

Biting his lip anxiously, John nodded. "Yeah, he asked me," John said, thumbing the cuff of his sleeve.

"I can provide you with assistance when moving if—"

"Turned him down, actually," John interrupted.

Was that a _flush_ blossoming across his face? In fact, the doctor suddenly appeared to be having difficulty looking him in the eye. Mycroft's eyebrows threatened to touch his hairline.

"You turned down Sherlock's offer?" Disbelief colored his words.

Licking his lips, John smoothed his hand through his hair, uncertainty evident in his worried expression. "Yes, yes I did. I, uh, wasn't quite ready yet for… well, the black hole that is Sherlock Holmes," he finished candidly.

_Understandable_, Mycroft thought.

Dealing with Sherlock Holmes on a daily basis was not only time consuming, it was downright draining. After the emotional hell John had recently been through, it was no wonder why he might balk at being Sherlock's companion again so soon. Still, the decision made Mycroft feel uneasy. Feeling utterly wrong-footed, Mycroft was forced to realign his expectations with reality. He hadn't given it proper thought, what John would do when Sherlock came back, but part of him had always assumed that he would resume his role as Sherlock's partner/caretaker: cause and effect, nature rebalancing itself, as it were. That John Watson was willingly deviating from that path was jarring— and strangely arousing.

With the change in plans, Mycroft needed to proceed with caution. He still didn't know what had brought the doctor to meet with him in person.

John continued to fidget as the low crackle of the embers filled the silence between them.

"Will you be ceasing your involvement with Sherlock entirely or is your decision limited to living arrangements?" Mycroft asked, careful to keep his tone neutral, leaving himself out of his question.

Alarmed, John froze, his sleeve clutched tightly in his fist. "What? No! No no no, I'm not, you know, telling him off or anything. I just need some time to myself to, well," John's face glowed with the heat of his embarrassment, "to figure _this_ out," gesturing hesitantly between the two of them.

_This._

Mycroft's brain began extrapolating each and every possible implication of the word, but it was John's body language that gave him pause. The nervous lip biting, the flush across his cheeks and down under his collar, the little unconscious twitches of motion in his limbs— John was exhibiting signs of fear and anxiety, but the hope-filled eyes peering at him in the light of the dying fire sealed Mycroft's conviction.

John wasn't here to _end_ their relationship, he wanted it to _continue_. He was worried that _Mycroft_ wanted to break off their arrangement. Perhaps Sherlock's return had brought doubts of Mycroft's intentions to the surface? That John could think that he had been used as a distraction or out of some twisted sense of obligation to Sherlock stung more than Mycroft was willing to admit, but, despite any second thoughts, John still wanted him, wanted him even though Sherlock was alive and back and willing to do _anything_ to keep John by his side.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs, feeling the tension drain out of him. A slow smile crept onto Mycroft's face, more real than any he had given in three days.

"When I agreed to enter into a relationship with you," Mycroft softly reassured, "it was by my own free will. I _desired_ to do so. Nothing else could have moved me to entertain an involvement with another person. I am certainly amenable to continuing our relationship, if you are likewise inclined."

For a moment, there was silence but for the quiet smoldering of the ashes before John smoothly got to his feet. He didn't say a word as he crossed the few steps to Mycroft's chair and knelt between his splayed legs. John slid his hands up and down Mycroft's thighs hypnotically slow.

"I think you'll find that I am… more than agreeable," John said as he teased the material with his nails.

The sight of John on his knees made Mycroft's cock twitch. After half a week of preparing for rejection, the doctor's sudden forwardness was enough to bring Mycroft swiftly to hardness.

He started leaking precome when John leaned forward to lick along the outline of his cock. Mycroft took a shaky breath, desperate to calm down, as he gently cupped the nape of John's neck, guiding him closer, silently urging him to continue.

Eager to please, John lipped at Mycroft's confined erection, his hands pressing into the flesh of Mycroft's thighs for support. Looking up at him through his lashes, John shifted his weight so he could press a hand to Mycroft's throbbing crotch.

A strangled moan tore from Mycroft's lips and his hips bucked up into the firm pressure. The need for release was building steadily, his groin tight with several days of repressed arousal.

John opened his trousers and eased Mycroft's turgid cock out as gently as he could. He stroked over the sensitive skin with his fingertips, driving Mycroft mad with touches that _just weren't enough._

Amusement shone bright in John's eyes as he grinned wolfishly.

_He knows _exactly_ what he's doing_, Mycroft lamented.

Thankfully, John had a merciful streak. It wasn't long before he was grasping Mycroft's weeping erection firmly at the base and taking him in as far down his throat as he would go.

A shudder racked through Mycroft at the feeling of being enveloped in tight, wet heat. It was mesmerizing, watching John bob up and down on his length, lips stretched around his girth with tantalizing glimpses of tongue.

Mycroft panted harshly as John worked his cock with the enthusiasm of a rent boy, his eyes fixed on Mycroft's.

A brief scrape of teeth had Mycroft's hips stuttering forward before he could control himself, driving his cock deep down John's throat. John's eyes fluttered shut, his groan muffled by the flesh gagging him.

_He liked it_, Mycroft thought, wonderingly.

Sliding the hand on John's neck up into his hair, he gripped the short strands and pulled John down onto his length, thrusting up at the same time, fucking his way into John's mouth. He set a punishing rhythm, controlling John's movements on him as the head of his cock pushed against the back of the man's throat.

The intellectual part of Mycroft was intrigued at how the saliva dripping down John's chin, the wet slurping sounds, and the writhing tongue against him brought him such visceral satisfaction. His primal side purred under the onslaught of sensation, loving the way John was allowing himself to be dominated.

John's chin and throat were slick with spit from keeping his jaw slack, but his tongue moved ceaselessly, licking and stroking against the driving length in his mouth.

Mycroft groaned loudly as he fucked John's face. He could feel his orgasm creep closer with every flex of his hips, with every choked moan and whimper from the man around him.

What pushed him over the edge weren't the tears he could see in John's eyes— it was the trust.

This strong, intelligent, capable man was on his knees letting himself be used for Mycroft's pleasure because, even after everything he had been put through, he still trusted Mycroft to give him what he needed, to put him back together when he shattered.

Mycroft thrust hard into John's mouth, holding the man's head in place as he shook violently through his orgasm.

John obediently gulped down each pulse of come that was shot down his throat. He hummed contentedly as he gently cleaned the sensitive skin with his tongue, the hand in his hair having fallen away when Mycroft's body went slack from euphoria. Pulling away from the softening cock, John wiped the mixed fluids off his face with his sleeve.

As the trembling left his limbs, Mycroft tugged John up off the floor and into his lap to straddle him.

John pressed his forehead to Mycroft's, his eyes closed as their noses brushed together.

"You'll let me take care of you?" John asked in a small voice, leaning his body closer to Mycroft's, instinctively searching for comfort from lingering insecurity.

Mycroft reached up to rub John's neck as he unfastened the man's trousers, freeing him from the confining material. Languidly stroking the doctor's aching flesh, Mycroft drank in John's whimpers as he bucked wantonly into the touch.

He pulled John in close to whisper in his ear.

"Only if you'll let me do the same."


End file.
